God Tongue [Epistle on Taste]

by Alabaster Samovars

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about

At the age of four, blindfolded, Pot Man was able to discern Berluti from Lobb Paris by the sensation of fit alone. Simultaneously, he could detect the individual nuances of Gyokuro teas from eight prefectures. This prodigious aesthetic sense was both a blessing and a curse. Since anything short of perfection caused him intense sensory discomfort, Pot Man was unable to rap over most producers’ beats-- a trait that confined his work to writing until he met Remington Iron.

lyrics

LYRICS:

Misty in the biscuit-tinted Fisker
Miss me with that shit that isn't glistening or whiskered
Risky: what the business is
Wrist is a chameleon
Mister Mephistophelean, but feel a little crisper
Ain't a myth in which I'm not a fixture
Espada shifter
Trader Vic colada sipper
Slip your sister a tawdry whisper
You got the picture...

Whipping something with the trunk in the front
Slump gave me something skunky to accompany lunch
So with a Bunsen I lit up
Blunts in abundance and hit up
Huntsman in London to pick up a little something to stunt
I got the tongue you can trust
Most don't talk about it
Guillotine a beat; bow it down; gouts fountain out it
Dressed like Eddie Hayes, my machete blades never break
Sprinkle game every day

Yeah, I got the dried pheasant garnish
Get up on my level: cop the bezel with the garnets
Neck and wrist drip like pen & pixel sent a missile in
My pen is listed in the Michelin
Fifty on on the ink I've written this epistle in
Slick as glycerin up in the nib, I'm glistenin'
Blisterin'
Dismiss 'em with iridium
Slip into the Chrysalis and dip