I feel like a fraud whenever people applaud me;
spitting proper sentences written in sloppy penmanship
my brain is ten inch thick, but my wallet envelops zip
get woozy when I swallow sips, you can tell from the yellow skin

not bruisin', but turning red, getting devilish in my head
peddling my wares via awkward stares, “who cares”
that’s the millennial mantra, that will perennially haunt us
a doomed generation, that’s what the elder statesmen

prognosticating, i call that self-fellating
but we’re all too busy hating, “boy is he grating”
"that boy, is he great yet? Or is it too late?"
we’re all steady waiting, on our dreams and on tables

and for the story to unfold, cause we grew up on fables
silver-spoon fed to us, call that story time ladles
a lullaby that unmade me? “they’re all whores disguised as ladies”
that’s what the internet sang me, it ain’t no “Rock-a-bye Baby”