02-23-2018, 09:42 AM
https://soundcloud.com/rc-james-user841120068/z0000733
Here’s a firearm for you son, my left arm’s on fire,
out of control, can no longer tell my right arm what to do.
When you get to the end of the rainbow strip
fall back on yourself give it all a go-go full ammo ambition.
Behind the alarms there are none of the wig-stand
sheep skin bastard go-behinds you all count on
for the next message on how to control, then uncontrol, the mob
waiting in the waste basket factory there on dump-down street.
You look like Orphan Annie’s mentor on a diet of fershlugginer opoids
supplied by the DEA itself to keep you wise to the goings-on inside the lie factory.
They wanna keep ‘em comin,’ dope the sumabich up good he’ll deliver,
pick ‘em out of a hat and the chief muckymuck orange wig-top
gonna shine those fucky ducky pearly whites your way, no lie.
It’s all about when, not how. We got an advance scripture meeting
Saturday nite after the demolition presentation at the armory.
Evabuddy’l be there, wait an’ see, you are in the lurch, that’s to say behind.
Catch up, mount the scarlet pony on the way to the infernal regions,
you only got one chance and that’s exhausted soon as you discover
everything golf-head says about your future.
What wounds transpire on your worthless body is nothing.
Compare it to where you'll be if everything is discovered,
the plan, the dirty dream unfolded about the man on top of
the silicone sister blown-up mistress of ejaculate surprise.
All comes down to trust, that’s what we lookin’ for son, lie your ass off, truth
as we know it, nothing wrong with that, only thing wrong is your lack of loyalty.
The jelly belly shortcut shit-speech man won't tolerate mouthing off
from sub-board-in-grates.
Only thing left is your kiss on the bulbuous ass
of that white house orangutang surprise.
Here’s a firearm for you son, my left arm’s on fire,
out of control, can no longer tell my right arm what to do.
When you get to the end of the rainbow strip
fall back on yourself give it all a go-go full ammo ambition.
Behind the alarms there are none of the wig-stand
sheep skin bastard go-behinds you all count on
for the next message on how to control, then uncontrol, the mob
waiting in the waste basket factory there on dump-down street.
You look like Orphan Annie’s mentor on a diet of fershlugginer opoids
supplied by the DEA itself to keep you wise to the goings-on inside the lie factory.
They wanna keep ‘em comin,’ dope the sumabich up good he’ll deliver,
pick ‘em out of a hat and the chief muckymuck orange wig-top
gonna shine those fucky ducky pearly whites your way, no lie.
It’s all about when, not how. We got an advance scripture meeting
Saturday nite after the demolition presentation at the armory.
Evabuddy’l be there, wait an’ see, you are in the lurch, that’s to say behind.
Catch up, mount the scarlet pony on the way to the infernal regions,
you only got one chance and that’s exhausted soon as you discover
everything golf-head says about your future.
What wounds transpire on your worthless body is nothing.
Compare it to where you'll be if everything is discovered,
the plan, the dirty dream unfolded about the man on top of
the silicone sister blown-up mistress of ejaculate surprise.
All comes down to trust, that’s what we lookin’ for son, lie your ass off, truth
as we know it, nothing wrong with that, only thing wrong is your lack of loyalty.
The jelly belly shortcut shit-speech man won't tolerate mouthing off
from sub-board-in-grates.
Only thing left is your kiss on the bulbuous ass
of that white house orangutang surprise.
