I'm gon' name my first car, '96 Camry, a bitch.
Like Kup, always negative, dragging a switch
Second car, all iron sided, jumping curbs like you rich.
If you ever get the urge, talk you off that quick.
Two moves ahead. On the motorway
iron hide don't budge, come take a lick.
Mobile armor, cous'. Bring everyone.
Big O knock you down so fast you wish your henching never was.
Lasers and tech, go 'head and bring your mech.
Countered with a ninja style while my machine
gets busy on its own.
Two heads are better than one
unless you want Gerbera Tetra, son.
Armor joins mech, one pilot one tech
fall.
Hit hit hit.
Vaprized. Prophet 6, the orbital gun
shuffling it's way through the Oort
while we had it out.
The Ace of spades. Two moves ahead
sometimes has to be measured in
chunky fractions of light years.
A recurring dream about flash boiling
my left arm. The nerves being so sharply severed.
There is no pain.
Unicron had no second thoughts. Why should I?
An omen dream? If I had a bushy tail,
a full and absolutely perky
permanently fluffy bushy tail,
no matter how I tried to lick it flat,
I would love it and rest my cheek on it every day.
Every night, when pizza stops fueling us
and we have to think about the rush
of tomorrow's onslaught,
remember battles taken and the road to infinity
when ninjas fought.
If 30,000 descend, you have to live until
29,999 are slain.
Have to save the last 'til the boss is fit to trot.
Repeated save points.
Re-lit joints.
It's going to be a candle lit,
32 bit, night.
Keep your poise, hold down the noise,
I will be damned if you believe
Asteroids will beat me in 2-D!
A new high score!
A new high score!
A new Tokyo,
envisioned through a lens,
Sixth impact,
technicolor weapon and war paint:
TwentysixteenA.E.
