By the minute i was getting paid like a hot line
Instead of living this life of violent crime
You fine as two grapes gettin' stomped out by a giant cask
Know there's a barbed wire that's always in your past
Beaches of normandy.
What them tippers don't see
Of the book of your life
I used to have a nine to five
Illusion of days of elysium fields full of gladiators
You send me beats via email, i'mma send them back in a hearse
I'm so intact so i stay sharp
Your yard, full of pieces of lard
Of which im not exactly proud of,
Ships that sail to distant places
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