Themselves Free & Void
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…
damned 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..ck 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 pissed 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 dick 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,
Shit, 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….
