Go.

From womb to tomb let me presume that the Loon's droppin a tune so I'm obliged to consume, the nectar of the mind inspector, hand-selecting divine rhymes like a Mayan soul collector, no pressure, the cap's been unscrewed by the dude in the nude, skip the interlude, any sort of pause is cause to draw the last straw with a fast paw. The last clause said Santa dances to chances, ignoring the past laws, of time and space, we pace to erase the chase, that seems to be the case, read it on my face. Running the human race one genome at a time, here comes hero to unwind our parking fines and comforting lies, cutting ties with the disguise we plaster over our eyes, dark lenses erecting fences over the senses, the suspense is held in endless tenses. Just futuristic mystic chirping with specific crickets, finding golden tickets in rotten tid-bits. Philosophizing crossing the lost horizons of Zion. Jwiggy, wigglin words, like a twirler of twisted verbs, provoking lyrical Heimlichs on those chokin from silence.