This is for them young man lyrical perps who want to enter the squared circle with an old pale urkle working birkenstocks with socks kid but still pulling all the lurking working girls nad hot chicks gold watch on your wrist, all pissed watching me fold any chance you might of had at a tryst Like what's this? Hey kids this songs not for profits, Like all but locust honey, long walking an 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 dick to make i'll rock my fake batch of syphilis which is strictly for pity, But boy it ain't pretty, the faux rash on my breast plate. I'd ask if this pay sbut upper class and rich say Broach no cash on a mix-tape, it's gauche and shows distaste. My good tonge displaced and replaced by a hood one Like men and mices is in these times of economic crysis.
I ain't rappin' for money llocust, God and honey
This is for them young man lyrical perps Who volley aimless and anxious tween unwell women and works, with a less than rent for they merc, and an ant on this shirt. Aint nothing perf, cept for death vertex an pre-cambrian Earth But that depends (why wouldn't it) on the caliber of your friends and whether your garden lightly in the feeding of men, where kids had did sing songs not for profits, like all bu 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? You flashing flint for a tongue, hair a choir of wicks that lits, or just sedatives sung and a derivative hip, Shit, i prefer my bezels a bundle of dysfunction and thunder, their poems bones a certain something to cover, ain't more significant others with is 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 crysis.