man, this kid's tweaking
yo Serf, I think your synth's bleeding
arm in a splint, needing stitches
where its lip's leaking
ask the drums: what's up?
they said it happened so suddenly
but we put up a good fight
you should have seen the other beat
now the baseline's black and blue
needing face time with shellac and glue
I'm in space time, better let me get back to you
on that, cat's be hopping onto Serf tech all willy-nilly
you silly hillbillies, these tracks is for the terminally ill
like me and my sick friend Serf needing pills (kill me!)
bedridden, staring at the ceiling guts spilling
it's a proud affliction
the sound of friction
when my words spark the crowd addiction
like a matchstick in a powder kitchen
known to be bewitching villages with the dark arts
and mark hearts for cherub shots, Marcus Carab got
curare darts and a regimen of terracotta warriors
and four canopic jars - he's prepared to rot