[Lyric] A YEAR OF OCTOBERS (Y*O*U*N*G*M*A*N + Celestaphone)

It was a midnight competition
The YOUNGMAN was hosting
The judges were fair
The judges were roasting
The judges were YOUNGMAN, Celestaphone, and some kind of ghost thing
Backhanded compliments deliver that slow sting
But YOUNGMAN couldn't front at the lady who dressed Betty Boop
And he yammered and stammered in front of his petty group
Their eyes met like old friends they already knew
The ghost thing said, “10,” and Cеlestaphone dropped dеadly loop

My raps fill space like inconsolable crying
A basket case notice when whole world is dying
Period so sad, unfuckingbelievable
Feel so-called pro got degree in bull
Told neph “happy b-day, you’re age I stopped developing”
Dead Kennedys enveloped soul, said hey fella sing
Perennial teenager you can’t tell a thing
Especially from someone who can’t even smell a stink
To care what elders think, they gotta retain kid-dom
Ancestral wisdom held in our guts as children
YOUNGMAN in the building like landlord with squatters’ rights
May've fooled me once with small print but not tonight
Caught a flight, zing pow right in the kisser
Saw the light, source of the mystery
I keep fighting misery but it’s got me surrounded
My favorite quarantine joke: “You’re grounded!”
I'm the Bad Bunny of dad jokes compounded by inflexible honesty and radical hope
Laugh every night, don’t sleep on sad notes
But when I hit lab, all y'all say “that’s dope”
That's dope
That's dope
That's dope
Yeah I'm in a lab, I'll be here all weekend
So tell a friend and a tall freak
Okay, sexy scientist in the house
Look at how she adjust the blousey lab coat
So beautifully placed the stethoscope

Ay YOUNGMAN what you dressed as?
YOUNGMAN a huge kid who loves to get stupid on rude big music
My lady's a dresser for maybe lesser known Baby Esther Jones
God bless her tone and yes her clones
DJ Celestaphone's triple decker decks look like a waxburger
Records he selects hit like an axe murder
There's no word for an enormous toddler
Whose knowledge cobbled together to form an abnormal author
Perhaps an aging lil' guy
Still fly enough to supply a laugh, kill a lie
Sit down to write like taking dictation
So banging low hanging scripts fill the sky
Got too much to say to pause for the beat
Gods for the details, free jails, laws incomplete
Chorus artsy and def as Boris Artzybasheff
Yet I don't often repeat
Cross between Decalogue, Triumph the Comic Dog
Promised God I'd flog whoever piloted the Amistad
Thousand yard stare, brows frown in hard care
Nose flairs, eyes squint, head crowds with grey hair
20 years ahead for 20 years
Let’s get friendly cheers before we drown in enemies’ tears
A toast clink to some kind of ghost thing
Left as a person, returned in a closed ring
Okay everybody, simmer down, calm down bitches

Check check, one two

Excuse me in the back, pay attention
I'm gonna hold my beautiful hand over each one's head
And y'all are gonna vote for your favorite eras
Okay?
Okay listo!
Show some love to the punk-punk
Not bad, not bad
Next up, post-punk
Okay, pop punk
Aw, y'all didn't mean that, that's not right. Y'all not right yo
Give it to my people in the hardcore!
And last and final contestant, show some love, Youngcore
I think we got a winner