And on the Seventh Day Goddess said "Here Loki, take this ground and spit!"

So much shit I can't even bring up. Doesn't matter if the facts pass, they disrupt…
Paradigms erupt and ass-clowns stare blankly back or tremble-laugh as if I should be wearing an aluminum foil hat
So I don't have time to waste for those who wait for a phase shift or the return of the spaceships.
I was formed out of mind, born to be on my grind, so all the time, boo? I'm just waiting for Epiphany's next rendezvous.

Licks quickly slip, flipping my brain, quips rain, jewels I cough and untangle slide from my mind
Like Giuliani crossing out the Five Families, one ride at a time. But that's his clear roll.
I'm an anti-hero so I don't fight crime; I light it up in greater design, following every funny tale through the money trail.
That's how you deepen the cut, keep up and reap “The Sign of the Times”. To that I vowed as well, so I “Don't fear the reaper”. I just come equipped with “MORE COWBELL!”

Sooner or later leaders turn to traitors, like Montezuma, riding his dread, too afraid to stand aside his own born and bred, believing in legends instead
Like that rumor that Dick Cheney rises from the dead every time Lucifer 69’s. Oh wait, I started that rumor, I forgot…
Zoom in on every spot and unpack shit, look close and stack up the footnotes, like Terry Pratchett--going so far in sidebar
When the sky is too full of deities and stars, Apollo will have to refine his game, find the Diamond Lane, with Icarus riding sidecar!

But even then I’ll trust my sapio-sexual naked-brain-lust, stake my claim like Daedalus; who else amongst us gets re-made every time the new day busts?
After the last I’ll find my patter and laugh, wet up the after-scene with my magic touch until Constantine says “Let's hook our networks up” and Sisyphus stops on a whim too, with “A’ight big brother, I'm in, what's our next move?”
Victories without apologies are re-written as history blending with mythology and so classic archetypes are more than parts that delight; they’re what sparks when our eyes open to true sight
Burning the red, learning the blues, discerning through groove, never rue what comes to me inside

...Because despite the lies I wasn't ACTUALLY born with a veil over my eyes. It was Pandora's satin camisole!
Platinum soul, whatever happened in days of old, she stood cold when every malevolent ill unfolded an inch before her nose! Hard woman fits!
Did nobody else notice that shit? Like the lesson of Rapunzel, “If she’s got the handle on your animal? All security systems crumble.” The real core
Is that there's always more to the score. That's what lore-surgery is for. What crops up uncatchable is still hatching, and a Doctor of Passion must get to unmasking!

If all the world’s a stage, I'm the Mage of Riff Tracks, a bit of this, mixed with a bit of that, and the mishmash trip laughs, giving birth
To unrehearsed reveries, amongst those who felt me, like the origins of MIRTH: the high gleaned from the fumes of the Oracles of Delphi…
Oh! And as long as we're on that show, I wonder if their togas ever billowed up in place like Marilyn standing over that sewer grate?
Toast me with a shot of Dewar’s if you relate. If that escaped? I don't mind in the minimum. Time is a continuum, so no rhyme is ever “Too little, too late.”

Puzzle pieces just get re-released when I drop the muzzle in the breeze, like nothing’s troubling me.
Consequences are the fee because honesty ain’t free but like a retired porn star I just don't give a fuck anymore
Victory is a lame way of keeping score, got me bored. I’m a troubadour so what do I do this for?
Every play is born to explore the hidden corners the days form, map every inch of the tapestry like life was a holographic RPG!