I stole this flow from a guy who stole it from Samsa
I don’t have any answers like the ocean breeze,
I’m dancing in parking lots and eating free samples
And I read books and chill because my TV got cancelled, oh yeah
If I could I would’ve made my rap name Kid Eternity
And always been on time because that shit would fit so perfectly
But now I’m always late and I’ve been spitting drips of mercury
But I guess I’ll be fine cus making new ones isn’t surgery

Names I mean, KE was in Hit Comics 25
And when he said “eternity” then his thoughts would come alive
And form some figure out of Western literature or history
Who’d spit some words on his beliefs and disinter a mystery
Or something, uhh, actually to be honest
I don’t really read comics, I just want the power to de-bee bonnets
And call up Shakespeare to bug him to repeat sonnets
He never wrote, eat cheese on three-cheese omelets

And never paying money for a service
Coached by Carnegie and eat honey with Epicurus
I’d have a thousand rappers up to deal with my songs
And call up Chesterton and ask him how it feels to be wrong
Shit’s like Fate/Zero it don’t matter who I’m fighting with
Then chillin out with Kierkegaard like give the guy some vicodin
I’m coming with some old school rules like Hammurabi
And some of my none-too-few ghouls can grab a body

Lamping in the gate between ideas and their shapes
Bug catching, pinning wings in museum of your fates
I’ll punch Joyce in the arm until he annotates the Wake
And then refute his exegesis with some antiquated sages
I’m a sempiternal existential horticulturist
And hit the cornerstore and dip and climb aboard a Culture ship
I’ll make your waifu real for eight grand and your soul
And I probably should’ve mentioned that I’m damned and alone

Cus Kid Eternity is really powered up by demons
Who deluded him with chaos magic hell could be redeemed with
A seldom evil genius in a red sash and mirrorshades
Let’s grab the gear and play at death masks and hero games
I’m summoning the worst and then absorbing all their properties
The eight-pointed star of a Discordian chestomathy
I’m not a pompous psycho I’m a psychopomp, guide you off
When I say my magic word then try to dodge, time is on

And paying no salaries making a rogue’s gallery
The fleeting dissolution of life is my lone calvary
Happy mad sorcerer, ignoring my pain
In pastiche in bad portraiture - Dorian Gray
But towards the end of time all my lore is in vain
Wish that someone else’d choose all of the forms for a day
I’m formless and gray - a man floating in the void
Or a baby elder god hella choking on its toy
So begins the noise