Scribe
• Written by G-FaceMurderer
We Marx march 'till we Kant no more, It's an error in every era, rather it's pro or the stare of a cypher, lyrics slice like Cera.
My guardian angels weep with feathers, sweep the sky in stone when you not looking, flaming sword in hand brings terror.
A silver chilver on a coal flavored gold throne, that's what the streets is paved with, a chromosome for each blue ozone.
Another head blown by a strap not sown, death demise or cold, no matter what your body fold.
I have a headache, my sound is an earache from this earthquake I've conjured, this beat that I've lured to murder, yet the jury cant conjure me.
Ouija board called me, I said "I'm not home." they replied "But you conjured thee." I shriek, then I fall to my knees.
My last option, do a Ronnie or put up mantis hands, choose one or your dying, my last message, R.I.P.
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About the Artist
G-FaceMurderer
Member since September 30 2021