Born under the bad moon that Credence Clearwater foretold
The devil begged me to stop, he even offered his soul
I'm just a lost boat bobbing heading anywhere the nautical pulls
God's mad because i keep chasing other gigs than his sought out role
Bottomless holes are all i dwell in, no ladder to resurface with
I hold the pen with a surgeon's grip, rap tighter than a tourniquet
With the mic i am murderous destroy every fighter in the tournament
With the sleight of a magician, spittin fire you'll be burned to crisps
Fuck your crew, i move mountains
There'll be articles on how i rock formations by environmental journalists
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