I'll Kick Your Face Off

Crelching baron wastelands.
Pocket sense meaning grans.
Dirty burning wet sand.

I wasn't watching when you showed me your pocket sense
Counting your fingernails behind your armored-core fence

Bezooming by the wayside
Tapes in my mind never died
Dancing feet always ask why
Pencil scratcher in my mind

Where has my butcher's knife gone?
I couldn't even buy one