Herein is the mystery. Babou has a history,
goin to the farm where his past is hot and blistery.
All the felines want him, all of them have got him,
all the cubs that bear his genes and all of them that sought him.
Ain’t no way to regress, can’t go back to recess,
this is not so easy as to leave this alt-world Z-less,
gotta figure out how, how we changed this huge field,
causin birds to fly and die and drop down like they drive steel.
I can feel the air pulse, that wormhole gotta find us,
follow our loud signal as we pierce time they behind us,
I take your hand and we run like we done so much before,
past the grain, under trees, through the brook and then more.
Mike is stalkin our scent, with his homo erectus sense,
sniffin and trackin and creepin and stalkin,
we may get a head start, but it sure won’t help us,
when it get dark he gonna find us and he’ll melt us.
Send Jay to the high ground and have him circle out back,
gotta figure out what we did to change the course of history’s track.
Then I have an epiphany, eye Babou in disbelief
“Did you serious leave that lump that’s lyin on this old leaf??”
Babou, then, he turn away, put his paws over his eye,
little crap that causes man to grow corn on the southeast side,
mutant corn Monsanto, bindin with his new plot,
so productive that this strain solo pays for whole lot.
Contango is the new normal, kids eatin lotta corn,
fewer born, Corn Flake scorn, celibates all look forlorn,
less carbon in the system, birds resort to eat kin,
bird disease with rickety knees, fallin like the seven seas.
“And that, Babou, is why I say, ‘You do not crap where you eat!’”
Pick it up, wrap it up, my plan for this is pretty sweet.
Mould it long, mould it round, put a few leaves on it maybe,
like a pigskin, like a ball, bomb at Mike like I’m Tom Brady.
It goes hard, it’s like a laser headin for its target mad.
Mike looks down, can’t see it, about to get a challenge flag.
Ain’t a fade, this crap ain’t timin, this is just my way of remindin
who is boss, QB1, MVP takin care of my assignment.