Service the discursive lurkers in the furthest mergers of a scary circus,
Bastard, hap hazardous track master, put a beat on and words become lavishly crass daggers/
You're only telling me i'm number one and that you suck
Rip to my dad and my cuz,im just a very polite thug,
Bow your heads-i see the lines of my beaten artist hearses.
At a funeral service lurking and snatching purses
GO BACK TO WRITE A SONG ABOUT ANOTHER TOPIC !
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