Now it’s personal
My mental purse is full
And I’m cursing at the thought
Of being left behind with my head
Firmly implanted in the sand
I’ll dodge the reprimand and strike back with a gilded hand
Not like the gilded age, this situation is real
It wasn’t written for stage-play
New impulses I feel
It’s like a reel of the past 10 years
It isn’t deceased, the tiger’s still there
I didn’t lay it bare, I wasn’t aware
It was needed, until about an hour ago
The show was over and the curtain finally closed
It was funny, because when I was actually alone
The introspection made me feel horrendously exposed
So I dug in the shell, ripped the turtle’s head out
Again I remember what this soulful shit was about
This time around he’s not going back in
Finally understand that would be borderline sin
Can’t be blind to the blunt aspiration
Not blunt inspiration, not taking hits to stay mentally fit
Clawed out of the pit, and it’d take at least twenty men to get me back in
That’s all I have to say about the matter
And don’t fret, I won’t pull a Marshall Mathers
Won’t blab about being back until your head hurts
To anyone that stayed loyal to me
Welcome back to Multicultural Colonoscopy
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