Two weeks to take a song from conception to completion to competition!

Spoiled in Brine

This song was created for Game of Bands round 95 : "Mismatch"


"I'm a rock in a blender I don't mix with others.

I'm a net without holes I don't mesh together.

Like a bound foot in a clown shoe i don't fit in.

I trip over myself before the race even begins

I think back to a time when I was much younger.
most stress I had then was brussel sprouts at dinner.
Baseball glove under my pillow -- harnessing gravity and time --
hit a out the park home run when I was only nine.

Was I naive as a kid or was life what I created -- was magic a real thing or did just believing make it?
I think way too much now and commit so much less.
I'm a good actor but can't act on fucking anything yet.

A dozen Rabbit feet busting pocket seams still no luck.
A dozen straws instead of roses 'cause the crowd knows I suck.
A dozen bottles im drenched in olive oil but still I stuck....I'm gagging here while grasping at straws. there's way too many. No more, please. Seriously, I'm done.

The only spine I have is from the books I'm reading, I'm a helpless victim of linguistic inbreeding. I wanna be a pro at prose but my lines are bad jokes, like lines of cocaine, snorted at when spoke. I wanna be a writer but instead I'm just a rider, of coattaills and shemales Spinning shit tales into tail spins -- I'm the beta male of the alphabet and I can't ever seem to win

Wanna lead a stampede, of a herd of words, ride the line lions and command the verb birds, instead of being squashed, by the tyrannothesaurus LEXicon I've got a vocabulary bomb, but it's really just a dud, my speech is like a leech and it always steals the blood, from other rappers work, I'm part boozer part jerk, a naive little KID, and my penis doesn't work. It's flaccid.

My words are turds, so lift the toilet lid, I make skid marks with pen marks and when I piss my words they miss, but I'll never be labeled a missed linguist cause they forgot about me and they'll forget about this , to be able to spit and show it, like an eager Edgar Allen poet, Ernest to learn the Hemingway so I can crochet words into warmth but I'm on the sixth verse and they left me in the fourth.

Verse 2 and it’s worth it I cursed you
You have to love this song so fucking much that it hurts you.
Leave your arms scarred up like you Burt McCracken
Get to the bottom of the case like Special Agent Burt Macklin
You crafty son of a bitch. Why don’t I beat you with a switch then switch to my fists
and then I’ll fist ya to the wrist until your asshole splits,
Yeah this song took a twist and you wish it would just STOP.



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