The pen’s ultimate, baby the penultimate
Out a Shell to spilling of the fuel that’s engulfed in it
Leak acknowledgement of life lived but not done
Mach one, slow it down, cuz it’s better if we walk in it
Mark one memory and mock up pleasantries
To greet yourself with that you’ll mock in future centuries
Market for a legacy, but I think it’s best if we
Muck around and make the things we do the best fun
It’s not the music that is dope it’s my spirit it injected
Seeing lucid in the dome, it’s not wisdom, just perspective
And I stress it; this isn’t any movement or a message
Too many kids from the 90’s want to be the damn one
Well I forfeit, ashamed of reflections inside the portrait
Every portion looking morbid, I hate it the look is dormant
Fuck photographs, it’s a reminder of when the door hits
It’s recorded and you can never fix the moments from before it
It’s sore it’s, coarse it’s, a sword inside the corset
Inigo Montoya, you failed in tryna reach the source if
You’re a minute slow, oh boy, you’re a snail, an eaten course in
Puppet stringing shows, anointed arranged by that evil sorceress
Have you ever tried to pay a visit to the past?
Playing wizard to the facts so they shrivel in the back
Of the picture that you went to go amend, relive, and snatch
You didn’t fix it you just clipped it with a simple hit of axe
Aligned with rewinding time for mining
Paint the shit gold to sell it to yourself as diamonds
For the bellicose dolt to flaunt in faces and shine it
Slightly evolved but there lacks intelligence designed and
The pen’s ultimate, baby the penultimate
See it flash before your eyes, commence to then withdraw, well it’s
A sequence of surprises that forgot to leave you shocked in each
Accomplishment and squandered thought or second that you lost in this
Apocalypse to coffin of the point destroyed of being
Enjoy what’s possible; most of it’s devoid of meaning
The seconds that we’re stressing should be set for memories and
You can wait until the fall before you’re at the point of leaving
The pen’s ultimate, baby the penultimate
From Luther, Gutenberg, the Gospel writers to the Bolsheviks
Acoustic use of words tell by the fire, or the Socratic
School of thought, whatever, try the type you’re finding solace in
The problems from before are just a minor afterthought
And at the end we’ll waste our time just with our eyes fixed at the clock
Throughout this labor of my life I hope I tried and did a lot
Which when concluding may even help me get the drive to slip the knot
And cheat the reaper out his gwap just get to thieving him blind
Nickel and dimed destined to hide and turn a bitch in disguise
But keep the peaceful old time, where you’re releasing the mind
Bequeathing secrets when you figure out the meaning of lives
Or maybe even that the meaning’s a lie
Maybe that the meaning’s a lie