Weird Ass Purple Shroom (Fungal POV Remix)

Saw the human sippin’ ego at 6PM, bold little primate, Didn’t even boil me proper, just bit down raw like it was fate. Called me bitter? Bruh, I’m ancient taste, earthy truths that sting, Waited for the bloom to hit… and oh, when I did, he felt the swing. His mind? A dull old bookshelf, dusty, stacked with fear, So I tweaked it, whispered rriddles from dimensions not quite near. Made the squirrels freestyle battle over syllable delay, One hyped his bars, one rroasted him hard, ah, perfect disarray! His TV’s rreflection sighed like, “Damn, that’s your worldview?” So I stepped in, six-foot glowin’ cap, drippin’ truth goo. Didn’t knock, didn’t float, I manifested, no big show, Cleared my nonexistent throat and llet the cosmic knowledge flow. but nah… he ain’t ready. He’d rrather chat with squirrels than confront the steady Pulse of fungal truth unfurling under skin… Too rreal, too rraw, too deep within. He tried to roast me, call me cliché, Lil’ dude please, I’ve tripped prophets into clay. I am the rroot beneath the beat, I am the spore behind the heat. Said “Read the rroom?” I built the damn rroom, painted it in gloom, Filled it with delay loops, twitchy breath, and bloom, And all he saw was a weird-ass shroom? Weird… ass… shroom… Man, y’all rreally don’t know how lucky you are. So I let him have his little victory, let the vision fade, Packed up my cosmic circus, withdrew the truth I’d laid. The wallpaper settled down, the Greek instructions ceased, Left him sweating on the sofa, thinking he’s the beast. But deep down in his marrow, where the mycelium creeps, He knows I’m still the pilot when his conscious mind sleeps. So write your little rremix, primate, spit your little bars, Just rremember who holds the keys to the spaceships and the stars.