Jazz Hands

[Verse] Love note to the whole fuck show Postmarked from a lighthouse in the blunt smoke Dear motherfuckers, I'm teetering, if you must know Wolf at the door like a bug to the fructose Niece on the phone saying, "Ian, you should visit more" We could build forts while the pigs court civil war Miss you, miss you more, see you on the far side Scuffed shoes, couple new scars in the archive I'm not here to pull scarves out Here to pick tumblers underwater with his arms bound From in chains to the heart of where art thou I'm out there down to throw grapnel at a guard tower Down to spray piss on a cop car It's rage in the form of Renaissance art Can't treat it like a job at the stockyard And feign shock when they turn the block to a pockmark Stock parts knocking on Mach 1 to Camp Lo Amped up eyes glowing unknown pantones Drive 'til it feels like a Van Gogh Lest I cheetah me some antelope Partly cloudy, palpable panic in the troposphere Wake a giant, poke a bear, we don't do smoke and mirrors We do do a medkit and spare clothes Leave a motherfucker nowhere close New superpower that I picked up in a frenzy I could draw a roof on fire from memory Each and every sketch another bloodletting In a wake of escalation and excessive rubbernecking The champ can't look away, drink it in Strobe lights, smoke, no life, no lifeguard, sink or swim Ring around the king of pain, bring acetaminophen You either see the vision or dinner with demolition men Boom Flame to the fuse to the barrel I step into the room, split an arrow with an arrow The first trick shot is just to show them that I dabble I will not be aiming for the apple Lately, I treat every interaction as a living wake Thanking people close to me before the photo pixelate New day, folk down to play the game different Changed and going from being chased to playing chicken Get your whole roadmap Pac Man'd Black mask snack on whatever's in the dash cam It's not an ad, hashtag, or a tap dance Patsy, the revolution will not have jazz hands I know you're alien to matters of the heart and mind That shit that make you park the car and scream into the dark of night Some days, I wanna build a rocket to the Kármán line Ten, nine, eight, keep your head and arms inside, yeah