For the past 1,845,627 seconds, he has been looking for his bacon cake. He deserted his friends, family, and his responsibilities. After realizing he has gone truly illogical, Clay D. Dizzle embarks on self-reflection. Maybe finding the bacon cake isn't that important?

Lyrics:

The bacon cake’s within the rise
Followed by psychotropic skies,
I look into my three big eyes.
Magic pictures, the world’s torn.
I can feel the layman’s approaching scorn.
The preacher’s burning black sword,
Beneath my gut,
As my insides are undone.

Shaking orifice,
Unrelenting force,
The cake spreads the coarse,
Reaching past the negative square.
The cake is leaving me bare.
The neon grass has left a path,
For me to follow to the last.
Dying breath gives disrespect,
To the cake that gives introspect,
I need to fill the emptiness,
To the ways the norm can’t expect to get.

The paint starts to teeth and breath.
The skid can feel the sheath.
I can push my brain into my gut,
As the stars look white rust.
I see the signs above the trussed.

The pancetta cake is on the rise,
Followed by mental sky.
Look at my three big eyes.
Magical images, the world torn apart.
I feel the indignation that approaches the profane.
The black sword that burns the preacher,
Under my stomach.
How my internal parts are ruined.

Maybe I went to far?
I left my friends and family to fill it,
But they wouldn’t understand what I’ve been through,
To find my cake.
But what’s it worth without them?

I’m coming home.
Where is home?
Home is somewhere I call my own.
Which is where?
I can’t decide,
Which one is mine.
I left it long ago,
To chase my drive.
How am I so low?

I'm coming back home.