You shouldn’t holler if you hear me.
You should holler if you don’t.
So the knowledge, it’ll steer me until I’m tearing through your pulse.
If you follow on me clearly, then you better listen close.
I’m hollow as the theory of a man who sees ghosts.
Appearing with a fury, but it’s nothing he can hold.
See, when a shell’s hollow and you stretch skin across,
Hands beat it down and the drums starts to talk.
The average city crow grows cold and unfolds into a Blackhawk.
And the alley cats and rats getting picked off.
Plus all the trash that they live in ‘bout to kiss GOD.
I treasure cleanliness. Been living with my junkie dogs.
Who find it hard in their heart to give a fuck at all.
Just got a penalty and still ain’t touched the fucking ball.
It makes me wonder do I really want to play at all.
But if I quit that’d be a kiss on every haters’ jaw.
And that’s never been the way I played at all.
Stayed up late, woke up later and I made this song.
And Sense had left the beat laying in the crate forgot.
And went to China with his family while I just watched,
Over the house like the mouse that you never caught.
Always around but I hide cause I’m better off.
You might catch me in the kitchen then I’m dead of course.
Unless you’re scared and I run from your deadly force.
But all I really want is something like a crumb of yours.
And in exchange I’ll say what’s hidden in between the doors.
See the walls don’t talk, but I do reports.
I could tell you where this music is moving toward.
It grabbed the beers and the blunts from the corner store.
And dived straight into the crates on its own accord.
And cracked every written book just to know the score.
And sat in silence just to learn what the writing is for.
I try to smile but the child is always wanting more.
The old man always sleeps and only wants to snore.
And I’ve risen out the grave on my accord.
Still I’m caged by the pain, but I’m due reward.
For all the bounties on the heads, that’s what I’m shooting for.
I don’t want to win a battle just to lose the war.
I’m up the river trying to paddle back to home court.
Black Cadillac running on a half-quart.
And I’m a make it on the fumes, since you asked for it.
BLS, heart and soul to the marrow bone.
Black crow feather of the tribe.
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jacobvanloon
baratheonpilled
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