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lyrics

We’re raw noise like Hendrix on a Target jam pack
Full package like cross-country trips on Amtraks
You’d better stand back cause you kids are fake and can’t rap
Your personality’s thin plastic like saran wrap
Put on my headphones, the only life in dead zones
One meal a day does not assist my weak bones
You attack kids like American drones
My career’s desperate like foster kids who seek homes
Butt ugly child, no girl ever chased me
Honest to god, I think god honestly hates me
The village outcast dodging stones you throw
I freestyle acapella with Bailey Goldsborough
Cause I’d rather live in a shanti than resort to plan B
Musical vigilante, you can’t tell me what I can’t be
Sitting here alone with a sax and metronome
I put you in the zone as I reveal this epitome

Your wack rhymes only add to the confusion
You’re not a real person, just an allusion
Step to us and we’ll give you a contusion
You’re not real people just an illusion

I exorcise damned souls, the great demonics
And drive assisted suicide narcotics into despotics
With dozens of pets and blade tests to put your souls at rest
Misled like high school girls who starve themselves to death
Their empathy, resplendent before you dent it
A spirit shattered in pieces before you even began to bend it
You never meant it when you said you cared about me
I’m stuck between closed alleys
And defeatist tallies
My fetus rallies cut straight from the umbilical
Dispatched to preach faith to lyrical cynicals
So I journeyed through your hearts and caught
claustrophobia
Fought evil in your souls when it brought pandemonium
Cause I was a lonely one fixed to cracked walls
My lunch table at school was next to bathroom stalls
I lost my emotions and now I just sit and stare
Kids stole my stuff and pushed me down the stairs
So I turned my back and tomahawked verse for combat
My poetry bleeds faster than a hemophiliac
I’ll slaughter you cause music is my sixth sense
And now you don’t blow chunks you blow excrements

credits

from Better Day That Never Comes Tomorrow, released December 31, 2017
Mixed and mastered by FRESHFACE

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Thoughts On Standby San Pedro, belize

Our dead friends write songs for us.

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