Backpacker's Sermon From Mount Jansport - Milo

All right, final take. Way too late in the evening to be rapping, but, whatever

Rappers flex their abs, they're all fit and lean

I'm nineteen, and fine dining means a Kid Cuisine

You're on a train of thought, I’m in a limousine

That's properly outfitted for my primary thinking machine

Should I ever become a sell-out, wrap my brain in polypropylene

In lieu of a government bailout, I play Wayne's No Ceilings

I'm pennings with a nondescript, nom de plume

Rappers quick to send reminders they're no that fond of whom

Ever, the bell tolls for

Let's compare talents by whoever sold more

Four score, or rather four square

I got a mustache, but see I'm low on chest hairs

My sweater collection is entirely threadbare

These curls form a rather ornate head wear

I need a garden, and a good library

Every night I give thanks to the benevolence of the rhyme fairy

I'm will Hunting at MIT, with a mop in hand

The whetherman's union is a very angry marching band

Someone told me I was black as a saltine

Cause I listen to Rage Against the Machine

To which I had no rebuttal

My fight history's full of embarrassing scuffles

I used to want to be the Harry Potter of this rap shit

But scary daughters don't like to talk when I'm flaccid

My mind is a laser with the power of a toaster oven

I’m a nerd, but I didn't identify with McLovin’

And much to my chagrin

My father taught me to always lend a hand to my brethren

Which would be a lot easier if I was a Hindu deity

Reminder to self, stop and smell the peony's

And pay for any late charges on overdue DVD’s

These are good Samaritan raps

Rappers with a stuffy nose pop claritin caps

While I write by candlelight that drips paraffin wax

Narrating the hapsis, my endorphin's wither and lax

I had a dream I once gave a seraphim daps

These musicians could brush up on their medieval lore

I grip this microphone like it was an ethereal sword

I don’t give a gobbley gook about song structure

I got lyrics to make a tarot card readers palms rupture

I rap in the shower, that’ll forever be my first gig

Don’t talk to me when I’m busy reading Pirsig

I don’t have a private jet, I fly Southwest

I rewrite a rhyme for hours until it sounds best

All right, here we go with a little freestyling, how ‘bout that yo

Is this thing on, can you hear me, can you see me?

When it comes to these flows, my man’s on the Great Houdini

I’m floating above you, narrating things with my mind

And all you other dudes can do is rhyme

Really I’m a mime

Really I’m in a box

Really I ate the key, and there was never a lock

So whatever that might mean,

Conjure these raps from out of a dream

I’m something like a necromancer

All you other dudes are nancy prancers

You have hoofed feet and cloved toes

And you don’t rap, you merely flow

Which is something very easy that hose can do

Not hoes can do, but like a garden hose can do

My dude, get your mind out of the gutter

Um yes, and when I have toast I put jam on it, never butter

Um yo, I haven’t eaten meat for like a year and a half

And sometimes I like to sit and laugh

At less refined and educated people

Because I’m snobby, and it makes me feel like

They’ll never be my equal

Because I do things like that to boost my twitter stats

Uh yea, you should follow me

And that way Klout will see

And send me nice things in the mail

All this stuff is fake

And I would really like to delete my internet persona