I'm rounding up, just call this the bell-curve
Get slapped back just to make sure you struck a nerve
The issue's a squirrel in the road, make sure to swerve
When really, you just need a chance to escape her
He's saying "ya just expand that universe"
My thoughts are terse and I need to lyrically doodle first
That's all that this is, it's merely practice
You can call me M.O.S. if the shoe fits
Or rather I guess if the gold-tooth fits
Can't make rap a career so I'll just use this
To boost the linguistic, call us stylistic
Misfits, square pegs in a round world
Let loose a thread and the whole system comes unfurled
But that's not to say that I've lived on the streets
Upper middle-class and my upbringing was meek
Never seen gang-violence, and I won't fake it
Hear that auto-tuned liar and I just can't take it
Won't show up to jams, and my theory is he's frightened
Scared at the chance that he might end
Up realizing he's white-trash, he's the rash
That as creators we have to face
Need to burn the M.O.S's, the Fonzworths, and the fakes
And that's not a formality, I mean literally sear them
We can be the street-poets on a mountain of roasted men
Picture this, all it takes is a passionate pen
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