I forgot how to make good music so I made this instead,
laying in bed, waiting for the pain to spread to every vein in my head
and for the last nerve in my brain to be dead and to
finally be able to shed the inane things that I claim to have said.
Am I doing the thing? Is this the thing that I do?
Am I overthinking it or barely thinking it through?
Am I winking at you or being earnestly pretentious?
Depends if you get it or prefer of me to've meant this.

There's no consensus among experts. My text spurts
sporadically. Tragically, all that's left is excerpts;
my net worth's worth in pithy embroidered sweatshirts.
You might be pleasantly surprised if you expect worse.
My chest hurts but irks me less than the rest of me.
My brain wants to make sense but represses the recipe.
As I breathlessly beg for clemecy from my tendency
to mentally render me helpless under the density of my pedantry,

I lament the dentistry preventing me from speaking clearly,
resentment of being merely meat with sentience increasing yearly.
Starting to wish, with the impending ending creeping near me,
that I thought the simulation were an intriguing theory. I don't.
I'll speak sincerely, unless I'm doing a bit.
And I guess it's true, I'll admit, that yes, I'm ruining it
by talking shop in the middle of band recitals,
but you'd get a print out of my lyrics if you scanned my vitals.

Ironic detachment, post-ironic detachment from irony.
Idly overzealous as I try to be
the only one who gets to lie to me,
and that's wrong but I agree.

I'm calling myself witty as I wallow in self pity.
Swallow my swelled head as I crawl like a stealth kitty.
Already well hideous, y'all think I felt pretty?
Fall into Hell whistling, take all of the bells with me.
Help, prithee, or watch me crash and then burn,
Half taxidermied phoenix, half ash in an urn,
no cash in return, no capital earned.
All this balderdash to discern, and I've lost my passion to learn.

There's a lack of concern for the pachyderm in the chat room.
Hazard a guess, passive and taciturn, it'll crack soon.
Maybe some day I'll be the rapping version of Pat Boone.
That won't fly like the propeller in a vacuum.
snap zoom, lens flare, whip pan, shaky cam,
I'll pull out all the tricks to camouflage how fake I am.
Magic isn't real, so tell me I'm a mage, Joanne.
Call me a castor like I gave a dam.

That's a beaver pun.
This whole thing was building up to a beaver pun.
That's it. Hope you percieve it's fun.
I believe I'm done. I'm leaving, hun.
Like a BB gun to the teeth and gums.
Bleeding, yum. Feeling numb.
Watch me become the tedium comedian
or just really dumb. Either one.