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.