Compost smolders in a drought, sitting back watching the crust glow
Pan-baked depression, suggesting you drink from the dust bowls
Who the fuck knows if Friday nights can give you a real buzz
cause I know crippled gang members who've shed that real blood
You're talking crazy, Pete Rock beats blazing the maître de
Equipped with the illest genes...to put you in a guillotine like a babyseat
and tuck you in with blades, for being a vet with hypocrisies
The net still ain't stopping me, ya'll come up short like Elenin prophecies
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