Don Johnson Big Band 24h
the mind is in control of the city from its divinity to the vanity, the unholy sub-urban trinity how pretty, the city, but pity the ones in its web hoping they fled from June back to February the unnecessary variations of nothing very elementary primary objective that no one can hear, very severe revere the rhythm of metropolitan fear the tempo is set in the network of traffic lights near people like mountain deer fear wandering in the clear existence depending on a light only visible from a distance faces of solitude in resistance the thesis, anti-thesis, synthesis a rap dialect of rec-record releases thoughts deconstructed into thin pieces still while the element of skill increases
tic-toc I'm losing seconds every second and I reckon the tic-toc is like the sound of the rhyme of the weapon of time letting the crime pass, forgetting the time cast harassed to fast, making the moment last gotta notice the line from where the boldest will find everything they seek as the oldest in line the predetestined sign to go testing, trying and you know you can't tell if they're resting or dying this city can only breathe through graffiti and oak trees note please the treaty immediately evoke these memories of summer breeze and sunshine I hope these are the memories that once shine like a punchline through the lazy hours of lunchtime or breakfast champions quietly getting reckless the diamond neckless syndrome that might infect us intoned correctness, the homo erectus
toxic osmosis of musically venomous elements is the natural result of the most recent developments like elephants running through the streets and settlements no eloquence, every single word is without relevance the prevalence of mass hysteria ever growing lyrical dams to prevent the rhyme flowing and the deeper the darkness the brighter the glowing of knowing the answer before the wind starts blowing so you run from everything you can't quite conceive and relieve the mind from the stress leave behind the rest, be divine to vest the interest into nothing but the monetary gains you invest the artist formerly known as Metropolis a goddess, topless, chocolate apocalypse modest reckless regards to the gods, what are the odds? greeting cards from the foot of the Acropolis
