This is a song about "Yousef"

You spend days in your room to look perfect on the surface,

Dial up words but they're not in service

Now money is a service, but it's worthless, there's no purpose, shit,

Writing line after line i never quit, finish the lyrics now its time to spit.

Service the discursive lurkers in the furthest mergers of a scary circus,

Bastard, hap hazardous track master, put a beat on and words become lavishly crass daggers/