you will never be lucked in this world boy
so sadly
picked for a thick fitting of silk
bathed in brandy,
then dried to perfection in the six month width of Alaskan sun,
so you might won, so you might win,
worlds over effortlessly, nah boy,
you will be shown how to work the crank that turns the streets to face the rich and just reflect them,
and if fools can have songs about nothing but wealth...
d***ed if I'm a not sick whole sonnets on death to ring a needle width a light out of the dark I crept,
and for those who slept f*** em now I know exactly which way I oughta be sending the wolves when we meet, cause I have had my fill, of seeing this flesh hit teeth, it's like me calling blood back to the front of my cuts, to do what, to wear pants to wipe blood, to cut luck, to...not walk and sleep at the same time, I think of paper thin wounds and mile long lines....
"rapping4money" feat...why?
This is for them young male lyrical perps who want to enter the squared circle with an old pale urkle
Working berkenstocks with socks kid
But still pull all the lurking working girls and hot chicks
Gold watch on your wrist all p***** watching me fold any chance you might of had a a tryst like what's this, hey kids this songs not for profits, like all but locust honey long walking and god is,
Or it is and that's funny, to be rapping for money, so which is or which isn't it, if it ain't d*** to make, I'll rock my fake batch of syphilis which is strictly for pity, but boy it ain't pretty the pho-rash on my breast plate, I'd ask if this pays, but upper class and rich say broach, no cash on a mix tape it's goash and that shows distaste
My good tongue displaced replaced by a hood one like men and mice is in these times of economic crisis
This is for them young male lyrical perps who volley aimless and anxious tween unwell women and works,
With a less than rent to they merc,
And an ant on they shirt.
Ain't nothing perf, cept for death vertex and pre-Cambrian earth,
But that depends, why wouldn't it, on the caliber of your friends
And weather you garden lightly in the feeding of men,
Where kids had did sing songs not for profits,
Like all but locust, honey long walking and god is,
Or it is and that's funny...
Like rapping for money,
So which is or which isn't it,
You flashing flint for a tongue, hair a choir of wicks that's lit,
Or just like your sedatives sung and a derivative hip,
s***, I prefer my bezels a bundle of dysfunction and thunder,
Their poems bones a certain something to cover,
Ain't a more significant others with which I'd rather fail a mother,
As each our own proverbial suns, our good tongues, replaced by hood ones, and then spun, where mics is hung, in these times of crisis....
so sadly
picked for a thick fitting of silk
bathed in brandy,
then dried to perfection in the six month width of Alaskan sun,
so you might won, so you might win,
worlds over effortlessly, nah boy,
you will be shown how to work the crank that turns the streets to face the rich and just reflect them,
and if fools can have songs about nothing but wealth...
d***ed if I'm a not sick whole sonnets on death to ring a needle width a light out of the dark I crept,
and for those who slept f*** em now I know exactly which way I oughta be sending the wolves when we meet, cause I have had my fill, of seeing this flesh hit teeth, it's like me calling blood back to the front of my cuts, to do what, to wear pants to wipe blood, to cut luck, to...not walk and sleep at the same time, I think of paper thin wounds and mile long lines....
"rapping4money" feat...why?
This is for them young male lyrical perps who want to enter the squared circle with an old pale urkle
Working berkenstocks with socks kid
But still pull all the lurking working girls and hot chicks
Gold watch on your wrist all p***** watching me fold any chance you might of had a a tryst like what's this, hey kids this songs not for profits, like all but locust honey long walking and god is,
Or it is and that's funny, to be rapping for money, so which is or which isn't it, if it ain't d*** to make, I'll rock my fake batch of syphilis which is strictly for pity, but boy it ain't pretty the pho-rash on my breast plate, I'd ask if this pays, but upper class and rich say broach, no cash on a mix tape it's goash and that shows distaste
My good tongue displaced replaced by a hood one like men and mice is in these times of economic crisis
This is for them young male lyrical perps who volley aimless and anxious tween unwell women and works,
With a less than rent to they merc,
And an ant on they shirt.
Ain't nothing perf, cept for death vertex and pre-Cambrian earth,
But that depends, why wouldn't it, on the caliber of your friends
And weather you garden lightly in the feeding of men,
Where kids had did sing songs not for profits,
Like all but locust, honey long walking and god is,
Or it is and that's funny...
Like rapping for money,
So which is or which isn't it,
You flashing flint for a tongue, hair a choir of wicks that's lit,
Or just like your sedatives sung and a derivative hip,
s***, I prefer my bezels a bundle of dysfunction and thunder,
Their poems bones a certain something to cover,
Ain't a more significant others with which I'd rather fail a mother,
As each our own proverbial suns, our good tongues, replaced by hood ones, and then spun, where mics is hung, in these times of crisis....