36 pens, colors bland.
Can't be a son of man if you ain't learned the sins of men.
To begin, I write a hundred rounds of longevity,
mighty healthy,
and brown ink powder like nutmeg.
Shall inch down from Hampstead, not illa.
With pain inside like you Godzilla,
and broken language, soaking furious anger.
The nights rang metaphoricals,
songwriting slang editorials,
handwriting like Bob Didgey.
These are basic instructions of the faceless shoguns,
cold world,
so you gotta love me
in a special way.
Living in a world that ain't.
The man born out of sandstorm,
the wave clam,
my wingspan,
the same laps my angel ran.
Shadow
Dennis prayers at the 36 chambers with a pearly brick scale is,
and during winter wars is yours.
Investigative reports rad,
reports rad,
sped to the mountain field,
killer hills.
My wool name is
Shadowface stairs.
I play dub plates,
Dale Levers,
and coke that give you shimmy shimmy y'all shivers.
Just cash your life in,
don't clash your own titans.
A mind settled in's a silent weapon,
36 pens.