Badda-bop, bop, badda-bop, pop is the night we made the beats as beats, dusty steps on the bouncing floor and hand-claps high on tables and boxes.

The morning where union style minds got slaps of paps, of paps, of paps.

The pot lid, ear candy
And the table, ear candy,

The popsicle percussion of the sly Improvioso and the naked Improviana, beat box bodies of the Emerald Cause, a case for love and boundless output of open-minded cleanliness from a madman's soul.

Hysterified slammings of jammings, vanishing in the moment, disappearing in the Hurricane Jungle where rocks fall upon stretched hides and gorillas pound their great fists into the waiting stumps of retired trees, old palms with no use, now important instruments of our swamp-box insanity.

Rata-tat-tat, ba-data, nat, nat
Sip-pop-a-dop,
Ba-dop, bop, bop

We roll in on the fever metronome; it plays on in clockwork stylings in the mind and
travel-guides our punch into the abyss like fury-firing rams in the stony walls of castles passed.

The data rips onto brain-strip hard drive to print stamps on the ears, audio watermarks for the protection of precious sanity and rumba-minded styles in the hands of the enlightened.

We badda, bop-ting, badda-badda, bop-tinged our hearts away into the early day,

Everything as it should be in the rhythm of life.

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