I'll imprison your loved ones in burning furnace
Dial up words but they're not in service
Your sons will turn to guns
I'm that nigga with the plugs
Bastard, hap hazardous track master, put a beat on and words become lavishly crass daggers/
Service the discursive lurkers in the furthest mergers of a scary circus,
GO BACK TO WRITE A SONG ABOUT ANOTHER TOPIC !
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