This year's the year I'm cutting quitting out my daily routine,
Moved across the Atlantic, quit the botanic, probably upped my caffeine,
I do hate to boast, but life on the coast has got me workin' harder,
No talking to ghosts, this is adios won't be a party sharter,
My life's too short to mope around apartments, my two cents,
I locked depression up in solitary, life sentence,
Commence these grand adventures, 'cause I am not indentured,
To solitude or censure, flying free with no pretence,
Without constraint they locked me up inside these picket fences,
The smell of paint had left me hopped up on some sickened senses,
But now I'm soaking socks in writer's block and fountain pens,
So you can talk your talk or suck my cock I'm countin' yen.
Got eurovision y'all are just wishin' for that dinero and grams
You're not Al Pacino y'all are neutrinos shouldn't be charging fans,
I'm standing with giants, look at me flyin' by the seats of pants,
Got no time for dying 'cause I'm arriving with golden fleece in hand.

I Am Gonna Make It Through This Year (If It Kills Me) [prod. §oto]

Okay, sit down class, let me check your syllabus,
You need some extra help like you were strapped in to the little bus,
The sober pacifist I'm besting drunken masters,
Leaving pulses slower than molasses in Alaska,
Rap Taskmaster, lyrical abstractor,
Too much wealth to keep it myself, like benefactors,
You lack the intelligence to stand among the masters,
You bastards, got me mugging out like hammy actors,
Not Nubians, you're bougie newbie hooligans,
Mooching doobies from a platoon of elusive boogiemen,
Hot Lips Houlihan, mashing shit in minivans,
Masticate you faster than cash's leaving your pension plan,
I'm flashing hot while your flows are hitting menopause,
I'm on the mic like a gritty reboot of Santa Clause,
Man-o-war, sting you like your fingers stuck in Mazda doors, 
You padawans surround yourselves with bullshit like you're matadors.

Taskmaster [prod. MIDI Hendrix253]

The room is sweating, condensation left on mortar thin,
I'm restless like this bed is if you toss some quarters in,
Popping Paxil for the mind, tobacco for the shakes,
Whiskey wipes away the taste of stale sex and mistakes,
It lingers, heavy in the air like I could cleave it,
I'm tempted to employ the knife, decide that I should sheath it,
Leave it stowed next to the Gideon Bible in the dresser drawer,
That kind of incongruity befits the lies I'm lesser for
The whore, the archetypal siren aspiring to please,
Arriving on the scene, bated breath and two bruised knees,
She's been used to these strip teases and room keys,
I'll pay her fees retrieving the part of my soul that's been seized,
A weathered photograph goes back into my pocket,
The golden deadbolt locked until I hear the knocking,
I hope she'll call me daddy, I need to hug her,
On her birthday, I'm tying to tell my daughter that I love her.

Vacancies [prod. .ciano]

*Art by Scott Sinclair*

Pint-sized poet only comes to your chest,
You wouldn't know it, but his focus holds his fury abreast,
'Cause pops lickety split in a rickety whip,
Left a mickey of gin 'hind the hickory sticks,
And though a jittery kid, he finds a strength undiscovered,
An undercover wonder but he helps his mother with supper
Hereby harkening a darkness that he can't remain blind to,
Absence sharpens his wits but fucks with his mind, too.
Heart in the clouds but his head stuck in the pillory,
Inspiration rife but creativity's auxiliary
To circumstance. And yeah the ladies make his circuits dance,
But no chance, he's forced to feast upon a furtive glance,
He takes rejection, ejects it onto some college ruled,
Neglected affections are future singles when emotions cool,
Striking through lines that would callously confine him,
He can't deny the holes inside have come to define him.

Holey Scribe [prod. Dansos]

Seven twenty my liberty's in lily-livered liveries,
Tempus fugit faster than forest fires, burn bitterly,
Head-splitting, knitting an apocalypse tapestry,
Strands of hair weave revealing a placid portrait of poverty,
Probably beating off to dreams of channeling Basquiat,
Probably not, producing the bare minimum quasi-thoughts,
Sparingly stepping socks in the streets where hell was raised,
Mimicking these mantras while being the bro that wasn't tazed,
Call off your dogs, but set your clocks by my cowardice,
Congealed sense of purpose coagulates and I'm powerless,
Sourness slipping between my sentences steeling myself,
To try to write a word on a page that doesn't conceal myself,
Shouting my soul but death is skirting these monologues,
And if time's money then my debt's worse than I thought it was.
Secondhand faces melted, memory persistent,
I'm paying for a future fucking nonexistent.

Le Diable Boîteux [prod. electric cher.]

I'm Roosevelt, I rep the roughest of riders,
Looking down at you peasants from my Derwitzer glider,
She sends me nudies by kinetoscope, this chick looks like Lizzie Borden,
Peep her unravel her breeches, bitches be begging for quarters,
Adjust my trousers for inflation,
This suffragette shows me her ankle, it's formal flirtation,
Take her back to my apartment, hope she's not on her ragtime,
I'll be her William James and make her my Gert Stein,
New homes like I'm Arthur Conan Doyle,
Like Cubans to the Spanish troops, these hoes can be disloyal,
I don't trust 'em, I'm the Sherman Act,
These squirming packs of virgins leave me hurting like the working Jack,
She calls me Edison, my name's in lights,
I'm a rare sight to behold like a dame with rights,
So fuck the Klondike, I keep my projects funded,
Ain't shit gonna change in nineteen-hundred.

TOTC [prod. Dewaldo]

Straight from the tip of my tongue and through my teeth to my lips,
Assemble similes and symbols on this sibilant shit,
Spit spontaneous classics, no respect for your habits,
You put me up with the greats and I'll still be winning your bracket
Shoot you a text while I'm up inside your bestie's drawers
Hideous Men don't keep it civil like domestic wars,
We write to kill, we see the whites of your eyes,
It's no surprise you're biting flows and leaving fights in disguise.
These other fuckers on the cover look nervous,
Cause I lose sleep to this game, I put in work in these verses versus
You gloss up your garbage, and your finish is spotty,
Hear the click and I'll expose your fucking stock-photo posse,
Shutter your windows dude, batten the hatches,
Otis Lord is coming up with a can of gas and some matches
Go check the angles man, I kill on this tape - Zapruder,
And fuck your hype cause my cosign is Pablo Neruda

Otis Lord

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