Reality Sandwich

Lyrics

[Verse 1] I'm a mail runner Squished between an erupting street and an exploding sky In a hail of numbers I'm [?] between knuckles and forces I sell piñata trojan horses To screen-test the bloodsuckers, I sit undressed in Fuddruckers Screen-fuck motherfuckers But while I record a sound the motion pictures meet 'Cause I'm where rivers and oceans greet each other And I spent the day at the fool party with an Anti-flag Instead of being at the pool party with a scantily clad Walking boob job, whose snob? I grip on her nipples when I speak to her But they say it's just a artificial sweetener [?] ask for my jar of pickles and I'm obscene with her 'Cause I'm a reality sandwich Clumsy, ugly, unflinching With a side of mayo, tomatoes, [?] and a [?] brought to you When I beckon, the word the [?] cries to me but you can't sound it out [?] Your ideal talent scout, the voice of reasoning between two pieces of bread that Moistens seedlings and speaks to the dead But to hang out with us, you need a lot of duct tape And a wallet-sized photo of your brainstem 'Cause I've seen DJ way up [at the plate?] And often relay race [?] with your ears, shrieking when it sounds You've probably made a wrong turn when you wanted to end up in the Lyricist Lounge You know a bit of bitches found over there But over here we undergo a fearsome scrounge To compile a style of ball for your reality sandwich [Hook] Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich? I think I've seen that you've nibbled on my reality sandwich [Verse 2] I'm an airborne pathogen Mushed between sheet music and a composer's eye The rarest form of craftsman I feel that I get beat tapes from the omnipotent But he has crappy drum tracks And covetous of your artist [?] clowns me And I don't have a snappy comeback What'd you expect from a moldy reality sandwich and unhappy lunch sack? But it wants a little taste 'Cause I'm a nerd eating pimple paste who used to work in a missile base Building weapons of mass destruction But now I form shrubs, and instead of nuclear arms I give open-armed hugs But what would you know about that? You live in Burbank, and me, I have a word bank You wear a necktie to accentuate your crotch I usually meditate squat, you're like a menstruating twat Or would you rather I count the units that my songs are selling Sitting on the front porch eating some watermelon? But how can you feel that way about a sparring heavyweight? Who changes his appearance like Fletch, starring Chevy Chase? But when I go to work, I can't seem to put my car in an empty space Because I flunk-or-fail to the point that my panderous box is full of junk mail "So I pull the skunk sail and get more than just a punch-in," said the risktaker And compass that would not rather be an unfit benchwarmer If I play it safe the turntables become a cotton gin My rotten skin [in the car?] is my pixelated Nirvana I lay untouched in a room of hungry buzzards In order to take that first bite, you need a whole lot of honey mustard I tried the reality sandwich, and now I sleep in an airbed Speaking to ground control I'm kind of a square peg in a round hole kind of guy You know the song's over When my fingers and the drum machine Have been run over by a lawn mower The song's over! (Yeah) [Hook] Would you like to have a bite of this reality sandwich? My shelf life ain't the half-life of an isotope But I feel like the afterlife has always been twice as dope Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich?