"There once was a man who was very sick, so sick that he went mad. He came home late one night in a rage drunk off of Boone's Farm and high off of paint thinner. He stayed up all night to finish building his last great work: a robot head attached to a cadaver, he called Wyatt The man went to start his new creation but Wyatt would not wake up. He tried everything and nothing worked. So he took a gun and shot himself through his right temple."

I've got human hands, human glands, human legs to stand, and a robot head programmed by a mad man. My first breath was beside a dead man; all that I saw was a gun in his hand. Waste can make me fake the taste. "Don't you hate the way your head makes your neck chafe?" Born from screws, that's S-C-R-U-S, through and through with cold soul, no clues. The diagram maps me out: just capacitors and LEDs for a mouth. The pages torn from my book are blank and the heat sinks deep in blood stained grout. The sea can't feel me because I'd die from the rust and trust that death brings R.I.P. So I put on this bag (it's paper) and you're singing, “That's so sad!” There are flaws and good lord I can't find the cause. Not with Faust or a shotgun in my jaws. Everyday I read and every tree will fall before me--I get sick counting to infinity. I've fallen F-I-F tee stories high. I see everything broke in perfect symmetry. (Side note - this shit is confessional. Head back, watch what you think is professional.) It's just a matter of time before I take this fake ass life of mine with a nine. But where's the rest of us? They must've been crushed when I first woke up. And I won't choke up because I'm man-made and my life's already lost. Every breath ends with death as the cost. It must be just when it's all just part of waking up.

WYATT: ...Brought to life by chance or happenstance. "Fuck art! Lets (slow) dance!" until we're wearing holes in our dresses and pants. Don't take away anything that I say today. Isn't nothing I can say to not press stop and let it play? Because we’ve all got our theories, shit, we get carried away. I get caught up with girls named Mary and Renee and Sarah and Cara and Kay, and any other girl who happens to walk my way. I got respect for my boy Fambrough. You know, even in war he's got the girls thick hot like bone marrow. We all get beat once if not a hundred times every month with the same ending and the same demise. I’ve seen the concussions; I've seen repercussions, and the reproductions from having slept with easy female Russians. You can kill a horse straight to the vein. I’ve got your discourse and affectionately sing to you a chorus in Morse. So, take away my arm and my leg. Don't make me beg for death or the last red Battleship peg, to hit on C-6. "You sunk my battleship!" I'd call you "bitch," but I've got enough useless shit coming from these faux-lips. I'd cry if I had eyes but all I've got are these blue lights¹, tacky as a Christmas tree in a window at night. You might look away from this play, I'd write myself in, with Forrest J on the mic, and even then, I wouldn't watch for the day or the way when I take my own life in front of my wife and before my trial begins. I can't take pills so I'll always have these chills and envy normal human thrills by just sitting still. This is classical, fantastical, masterful, modes of vague melody and hopefully it won't be the last song I sing. ANTHONY: I got Wy's back like “Wyatt, Wyatt!” My girls say they like it, like it. When I go downtown, buy them a round, next thing you know I bury my dick in their ground. This might sting, it might hurt, but let it ring up to your head through your skirt. You can be Courtney and Wyatt be Kurdt. Why won't you wear my "AJ Fucked Me!" t-shirt? No one shoots a cop that they liked; to shoot a good cop is like killing Tina, not Ike. Shut the fuck up about my bike or I'm gonna' shoot you or strangle you with this mic. Girls don't forget to take your pill and don't let yourself get ill when I tell you to chill. You'll wish you hadn't when I beat you, or when I make my first mil, for real. WYATT: I can't take my eyes off the exit. Expect me to do some crazy shit, just sit still and I'll get back to you. Don't blink for nothing. Just ask you something: “Is this for real or what? Am I bugging?” I drug a body down the street with its face in wet concrete—I kept it discrete, you know me. I believe that I was here for one thing, I can sing too. If you hear a ring just pick up. I got claustrophobic and what? Don't take no guff, don’t break no stuff. You always kind of like it when I'm in the buff. There's three sins I cannot commit: stealing, killing, or getting you wife wet in a sec. But you can keep your eyes out for players or a chets. That's it—don’t make me take the bet over under that shit.

Figure A.: the promise to pay. I had a bad day—oh my god where's the rest of what I had to say? Cut loose, foot loose when the mountains are gray. Towns passed slow when I was on the caboose today. Now look to the most aloof—shoot, I dare you! Kick drum without hitting the 2-2, my point is moot. Where’s my dad, my life? I wish I could eat this mic, I tried, but the sky swallowed mine. Oh my. Red suit Jackson, I need a back waxing. Catch me cashing in without all the luxury taxing. Flashing up, flip up your hair. Kill it off with Nair™. I couldn't bare to care more of the shit in the air, because it's there! (Don’t ask where.) Tear off, kill off new clues. Petting the mare at a petting zoo. I came back to you eating shoes with Electric Tooth. Steal you, feel you, swam the bayou—in truth, I could never bleed more than you.

Well you left and I think of the last day I clutched your chest and the things I forget, like: December 9th, March 8th, July 6th when I showed up late to your pop's funeral date. I'm a reprobate, I know, and you still forgave, but I'm here to make it up, change it up, or believe I’ve got the will to still stand tough. There’s a cow in pasture. I can’t breathe much faster. I’m just a ghost you can’t capture. Box step with me. Let’s take it 1-2-3, I’ll take the first step back, then repeat. I’ve got a friend at war, pride written like the lore of old soldiers. As he stares at his feet, in a trench, feels his stomach clench at the sight of a flying finch. Slugging master cylinders with cinder in your hair, don’t act scared. Don’t think no one cares. Kicking a dead man with an old shoe—making sure the dead are dead is what you have to do! Cash in your checks, places your bets on anyone but me—I’m a second place man. The future’s not ours to see… I’m the best man to be asking you please. Please, please, please. 1. I’ve got nine millimeters, one cigarette, a fully loaded clip. 2. I feel the bullet through my head and ask, “Is this what you were born to do?” 3. I was never keen on the idea of being half human, half machine. 4. I could go to war, kill everything, or nothing to destroy every being. 5. I’m lucky to be alive, to be born, to even dance waltz next to you. 6. I got six shots left and I’m pointing them directly at their chests. 7. You belong in heaven. It’s so obvious in that dress, that blouse, those shoes. God ain’t got a fucking clue if he don’t take a minute to choose to save you. So all we’re left with is this message, this visage. We’re invested in a half-a-beer and past-due postage. Oakracokage! Scurv’s on the smokage. And some days I can’t wake up. Wait three days before I shake that dice cup. Blink once for yes, twice for no. All I know is that I can’t let go. Please please please.

S.A.M.: Twisted verse spitter, no language resistor. Call it like I see it. Further makes my ears blister. Those guys he hangs out with are a bunch of bitches—not every single body ends up in ditches. My creator called me S.A.M. This new life is a sham—I should have left my head inside that garbage can. I was built without prints, plans, or pics by a man playing with a set of Kinex™. Never know which function will go out next. I can't even keep my metal dick erect. A failure from the start, just a jumble of parts. Retards, are blessed with more smarts; fags get more chicks in bars. That shit leaves scars. Tired of using my arm. Time to cause myself some personal harm. TI-86: 86 years from where I've been hear me talking it goes on and on the table I see saw in half the class room and accommodations are included is a prize inside a cracker jack box me back me upgrade the A plus test I made up in my head rests a man with a yellow hat and in fact or fiction will come true one day after tomorrow I'll be thrown away to go on the chess bored out of my skull with the mind sets the key code for access TERMINATED INTELLIGENCE. WYATT: Climbing in with a sheepish, Mr. TI – 86. He's got graphing - polar, parametric and sequence. Reverse polish notation: I think one enter one enter plus. What's a bad capacitor to fuck us up? Algebraic cousin to the HP-12C: summations on the fly, drive by and you might just see S.A.M., TI, and I solving matrices, solving x for y, deriving dimensions with pi. So I break the dips. I can still break those hips girl. We might be robotic but we can do any dance move when it comes to it, minus the Frug, just let us show you how we do. 1 2 1 2. 1 2 3 5 7: they’re all prime. “3 1 3 19 7 7 Why don’t you call me sometime?” Integrate this next function: u+2me x over 1 (You don't need S.A.M. to answer it. It's 6.) We can't escape what's intrinsic. We were made like this. At least you can predict it and at least we have a reset button to press, to clear our heads and rest our memory chips.

I might have driven by it. This is pure Wyatt knit. "You need a drum kit," I know. But the winter is slow and so is fall. I'll go when I'm called. (Mid sentance pause.) Oh what? I got a CDL to drive the truck to take such and such through SC until I get stuck in snow, in ice, in mud. I never had trouble this much. Blame the weather, blame the wind. I'm taking my friends to see Washington and the colors will bleed in gray on gray on white until the morning light starts over again. Maybe this is an episode of a children's TV show; tight clothes, big hair, and puppets singing about how the plants will grow. It goes, “Chloro-, chloro-, chlorophyll!” Undoubtedly unlike anything off a 40PF mic. Take it from me, because I became crazy nuts. Don’t fight it. Light the flag before we fly it. I like it! We rolled through valley’s with DJ D in a rally. First place was the first to Cali and the whole trip it rained. Who can complain? I can because I’ve got a metal casing around my brain. This is for the mothers we never had. Those with mothers think I should be glad: I don’t need naps, or Snack-Packs™. I’m fortified with a paper bag but I’m not mad at you dad. I like black Converse. Larry Bird traverse, baseline curse, hit McHale on a bounce pass reverse. The worst lines we take make the worst shapes. I’ll accept my fate for fate’s sake. Enlightenment values trust the right girl. Have you ever seen Fifth Avenue? Don’t worry, I’ll carry you through. The spring will fall away, the summer will call the next day, so don’t answer, ok? Just be clear, concise tonight. Resist the next fight we have will end all right. But trust that winter will come and kill everything in sight that must be undone. The leaves underneath your feet, the trees bare not even discrete, even my eyes can see that I shouldn’t like winter this much. I guess I’m fucked up. I guess I don’t have the guts for this stuff. It’s just as much when you miss the winter’s touch like I do. You’ll do anything just to get you through. Forget nothing but the memory you had; be glad for the memories we made new. (Every winter--every winter I go to the lake and just stare off into the distance.)