I never wanted to write songs about right wrongs or wrong rights, but song might just end the spree of me writing verses about persons other than me. Please, don't take offence to my attention or my intentions to please me instead of heeding to the abstract of that rap or that song. I ain't wrong; in fact this is the one I get my Grammy on. Who am I kidding? Who wanna hear a kid spitting 'bout how when he grew up he never learned to be tough and his peers gave him no respect, treating him rough. Getting called white was a daily insult, but I was black so I didn't get it---were they slow? No, they just didn't like me much because my speaking style didn't match what they used at lunch. But I was inundated in the culture, no frontin', my whole family from the country---you could call us some bumpkins. I knew I was black from my head to my toes, but these kids were too stupid; they would always say no like: "Man, you some kind of oreo?" Look, just because I'm middle class, in honors class, speak well, don't smell like a wave cap, got nappy hair that I don't pick, do not fit in cliques; I'm never with a frown, always smiling 'round, picking up a skateboard whenever I get bored or sorting out chords on a keyboard--- that's what I knows keys for; there's no kilo of cocaine sharp. My nose drains start only when I'm sick, and when I'm talking about music, mucus is continuous.

Say, isn't that Cae with his comeback? But wait, ain't his Gray Days ain't yet? What comeback? Come back from where? He needs to come back from there: the corners of the map being held back by thumbtacks. True, that's where I often find my mind at--- outside of space and time, vibrating with pace and rhyme. mistaken for an ancient Mayan, but my age is just two dimes. At two nines, NU time. At one nine, a new high. But at twenty, I still ain't hot. What's my name? Oh, you forgot. Is it Caeto, or Omoi? Iris, who is that boy? Good question. Names are names. They change like the faces on pop album cases. I slip in and out of 'em like Sanuks without laces. I paint this here picture with musical tinctures, and keep all my listeners asking for prices like they were Fisher. Surely, my temple won't pimple but I'll be young, even as I age out and folks want me to phase out and get a stable job so I can maintain a house. But can I get it? What's my antecedent? I mean it! I ain't got blue balls from spinning fast--- just close calls and winning last. You know what that prize is? Surprise! It's a snipe in the night scaring camp kids: a fantasy. Truthfully, he don't even have a fan, does he? Excuse me, shout-out to Alex C. It's real. People don't squeal when I take the field. But my music is so ill; doctors said I need a pill 'cause my sounds have been found to astound too much to be real. I guess this music's fake then. That would explain it: why nobody takes me serious when I know that I can make it. Haters are haters; but if you love me, don't shoot me down. Gone need some help exporting these fake sounds to the masses. Wipe off your glasses. I need you to see me at your best, no less. I stress that. Can you see me clearly? 'Cause I know that you can't hear me.

Memories. I miss those like discos. And a little goes a long way just like Crisco. I risked those in a game of minds, and lost those so I can't rewind. But if I could go back, I figure I would try a different way. Girdiring my mental state to stop thoughts before they escape. Lately, I've been feeling so dainty, succumbing to the pain like the world is a Mankey's fist, and I've always been a Normal type--- Rainbow Badge having, snapping through chasms faster than fast cause gravity likes to drag me down this black hole but I never reach the ground. And at this point, I'm still trying to figure things out. And honestly I've even grabbed crags to climb a way out. But nothing normal ever seems to work in this juncture. So I imagined it a dimensional film and punctured it. Now there's a hole so wide that no matter how low I fall, I always see inside. Belief is the only thing that matters 'cause the blue sky and green grass always seem to scatter when my brain stops the vibe. I get so live that I'm in trouble with the FCC who don't let me be me whilst getting airplay on TV. But I'm a repeat of all that made me, genetic; it's a hereditary disease. But it's all just a bloody ruse, my brain's tricks always seem to cruise directly toward my defective compartments, so heartless to mark itself a martyr. I guess that I'm a masochist. Never do nothing to help myself; that's the sitch. Miss Possible is it even probable that you and Mr. Stoppable could get yourselves over here fast enough to make me feel like I could toughen up? I feel like all I need is a roughing up. I was too crazy from K all the way up to 12 for anyone to try and detriment my health. Fights? I was like a kite---flying so high my only focus was the sky. Other guys, they could never touch me. Not because I was too tough, I was simply too lovely. I never had an outlet for my rage, so when my temper heats up my demon gets out of his cage. The lock is weak, so he parades down the street, frightening the spectators lining up to see. He's so wild with his style--- got the whole crowd bumping to this beat right now. I shout from the bowels of brain, "Am I insane?" Need to board this lame train to reclaim rulership of my domain.

If you feel me on the skill, you probably only half-recognize what is real. But if you feel me on the real, you already realize that my skills lie on the darkside of a parked car ready to embark on another journey as the tide glides in. Can I get a min, like the opposite of max or the measurement of time? Really, folks have this affinity for specifically having absolutely no understanding of me. I am not complicated; I'm simply complex; my innergear churning would cause others some stress. But to me it's normal, like dressing in formal attire for marching a bass drum upon a golden steam wire. Yes I am higher than a new employee, but I didn't climb there with the ladder of trees. Rather I was born in a nest among the canopies, flying since I was boy upon the backs of yellow bees. Please, take offence if you don't get this. 'Cause you can suck on deez nuts. I'm all up in your cuts like a saltlick. Halt this. I don't even really care. I'm only in the area to represent me and the others kids in hysteria. If you ain't suffering from the clashing of the sadness and the gladness smashing into madness, then you're one of them Other niggas saying that I'm square. They don't know that Patrick told me "pinky in air!" I'm fancier than Squilliam, monobrow, seastar; floating on airs, but I swear I'm in the marvelous, coolest, fullest bars like you left the pub door ajar, and then teenager-ragers came in truckin' in their date-rape cars. Arr, I'm away too far like a pirate sailing in the stars, so many space leagues away that you might as well call me Caeto Lightyears beyond the atmosphere. Can you even hear me with natural ears? No. My sounds are for the abnorms. Everyone else is thinking that I'm just corny, but they don't understand definitions. I'm not a rehash; I demand recognition. Please listen up. Honestly I transcend traditions. I'm on a mission to upturn, reword, disturb all things that put me in position to be lame, be tame. Rap game, this is an act of sedition. Don't listen if you have a fear of change. Just understand that the future is mad deranged. I'm strange; harangue me for acting like myself. I'm not inane, I'm just insane. Manifest Destiny, stake your claim.

Why don't you even give me a passing glance? I want you to see all that I can be. Your attention please. Did you notice that I was over here tickling keys? Oh, and would you like to see a cartwheel? Roundoff, backflip, yeah, son, I got skills. Did I mention that I rap and play drums too? Oh, you listened and you think I'm wack and I'm uncool? Well, this sycophant is sorry to disappoint. But I tried really hard, can I at least get a brownie point? I'm always stressing about how to impress them. Well, I guess I'm not; but I'll keep trying 'cause I'm a showoff. Your attention, please. Your attention, please, because I'm a showoff. If it was a way that I could make you feel better, I'd attend a knitting class just to stitch you a sweater. And that ain't 'cause you're kin; you're not my best friend--- you're an acquaintance on whom I want to make an impression. Or you didn't know what I was capable of making, so I sat down and painted a vivid illustration. Funny thing is: it didn't illustrate much--- it was a lucky thirteen of super sweet strokes with a broad brush. Then I remembered what it was like when I first started writing--- progressing chords in strange orders; it was exciting. Nonsense lyrics I felt were a bit of a cop-out, so I made up new ones guaranteed to be a knockout to any fella who ever figured that he knew me. I got so choosy 'bout what I let this music, my muse, be. It had to reflect who I was, not just the sounds that I create. That morning, sans window, I could smell it was a grade A gray day. If you're wondering what that entails. I should warn you that it might remind you of snails. Imagine the sky is not bright, and not wide. It's closed in, all holes been coloured in by wet gray--- it's a dull day. But it's my type; the air has a flavour like sweet melancholy-flower in nature. It's like the world is a beautifully boring canvas on which I dab drably with creative handses. And you should know that I am just a showoff. Your attention please. Your attention please. I am just a showoff.

On a night like this, don't meet me at the switch. I'll cut you up in shreds; you'll be in need of some stitches. Riches, riches, me, I don't get this. I rip kids in pieces and turn them into feces. I swat 'em to the ground and howl an awful bloodcurdling sound. My eviscerations take place without hesitation. Your only safety is far from locations that I'm dominating. I waste zero seconds; my teeth are break-necking as blood pools 'round the feet of victims that I'm catching. I know that this is true only through my memories. When I wake up the next morning I know that instinct took control of me. Deep within, a monster awakens by the light of a glorious full moon arising. Since light has this effect on me, am I ever complete? Doomed to lose control whenever I reach my corporal peak? And when the sunlight arrives in the sky, I feel more alive. Then I sigh to the sight of dried blood 'round my eyes. I cried all night, to the point of dehydration. The sadness eventually became my source of elation. In all creation, is there a more terrible abomination? Looking into the lake, who am I facing? Awaken with bloodstains on my shirt and blue jeans. My nightmares are my dreams, frightened by all means. But I can't help but satisfy my need for shrieking screams. I am not little, and still I'm not a human being. But I face my worst fear, the night sky air, because I know by the time I see her it would be too late to care, where wolves begin to wonder and where wolves could even bear, grizzly sights among the people who look at me but couldn't stare. I'm faster than average, savage. I am not a murderer; I'm just a killing addict. Added every person killed, but bad at mathematics. Acquiring a problem, but I tell myself I've had it. Trust my instincts; never leave a trail to follow to remains of the bodies that I didn't need to swallow. Heart stays colder than the winter of Colorado. Daytime, I'm kind. Nighttime, I'm hostile. And when the sunlight arrives in the sky, I feel more alive. Then I sigh to the sight of dried blood 'round my eyes. I cried all night, to the point of dehydration. The sadness eventually became my source of elation. In all creation, is there a more terrible abomination? Looking into the lake, who am I facing? Every night it's the same scary story Boy meets moon; boy becomes very gory. O, bloody bodies battered brutally by me, please excuse me for not being fictitious. Mm, you're so delicious; I splatter you with kisses. It doesn't matter if you're a mister or a missus. My precision is perfected; you will never see me missing. In fact, I attack faster than comprehension. And leave my prey's bodies lacking composition. I'm bashing competition, effortlessly with a glare because I'm not the only creature lurking here. But the am the only one who's mastery of their craft is laughably unsurpassed. I'm clashing so hard that it's disastrous. My descent into dissonance is unabashed. But my grasp of the situation is what I'm hating. Why must my powers be so latent that I can't even maintain it? And when the sunlight arrives in the sky, I feel more alive. Then I sigh to the sight of dried blood 'round my eyes. I cried all night, to the point of dehydration. The sadness eventually became my source of elation. In all creation, is there a more terrible abomination? Looking into the lake, who am I facing?

Sunday afternoon. I'm driving the van 'round town; gonna visit all my friends before the weekend ends. I let the windows down, let the breeze come in. The AC's broken and so is the radio, so I sing my own songs to myself. And I'm just wondering when are things going to change for me. When are all the things I'd thought would happen going to happen to me. Where's all the fame? People going insane? Their screaming out my name at shows that I'm playing? How'd I get to be so lame? When I was just sixteen I had all these dreams, but now it doesn't seem so easy anymore. And now I'm wondering when am I going to see things change! I guess it all depends when I decide to change myself. When am I going to change myself? Hm, I guess I'll change myself right now. Right now.

I've noticed that being weird is the new being cool. Old haters are now imitators, but they're still fools. That is so outplayed. I've always been this way. Ask anyone; they'll say that the C-A-E-T-O Moon's not okay. They say that I'm weird so I embrace it and change my location to be locked inside of a basement with cases and cases 'pon stacks of records tracks are my decorations; I'm elated by my emotional relational ties to Damon and Lu, Alex and Tyler--- a maniacal buyer and supplier of music. It fused itself to my being; it is so intrinsic. I'm drenched with the very essence of sonics. Bubonic in it's epidemiology as it spread through me, my physiology--- my apologies: that's my musical philosophy. I am a weirdo. People used to call us losers, but nowadays they just choose to straight jack our style. It's kinda funny though, aint it? The hate speech got translated to praises. More than praises; they wanna be us, but sad thing is they will never because the truth is so real it'll leave their hearts torn: true weirdos are not made; we're born.

O, 'tis the life that I live where there seems to be equally nothing about which to worry and so many people worried about me. So I cannot complain. 'Twould be a shame since everything's so perfect. Yeah, everything's so perfect. So when the slightest sadness comes my way, I grip it with both hands and say: "See, it's not so easy!" But in my deepest mind I know that's not the truth, but that's not what I want to find: I'm fine Oh well. I live a charmed life, and everybody knows that no matter what I go through, it'll be fine in the end. So why do I stress myself out most days? Well I need to feel alive, and I need to fight the fact that I live a charmed life, and everybody knows that no matter what I go through, it'll be fine in the end. So why do I stress myself out these days? Well I need to feel alive, and my mind just wants to hide that I---. In every life there is some pain, but how we deal is not the same. Some blame themselves, some cry; some wish they'd rather die. But I now the truth of it. 'Sall just a mental trick. And you'll be best served if you can change your mindset and point of view. But you won't change so easily. You don't quite believe the words I say, but I know more than I believe that you can be the one who sees their own rainbow beyond the Grade A Gray Days. Oh yes, you live a charmed life, and you most certainly know that no matter what you go through, it'll be fine in the end. So why do you stress yourself out anyway? Well, you need to feel alive; and your mind wants you to hide that we're all living charmed lives and everyone of us knows that no matter what we go through, it'll be fine in the end. So there's no need to stress out any day. But when you do sometimes, just know that you'll survive; just know that it's just your mind trying to find a reason to deprive you of your charmed life! Find a reason to deprive you of your charmed life. Don't find a reason to deprive yourself of your life 'cause it's only reasonable for you to love your life.