| pastor:
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| time three nights, word lined handwriting
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| leaving the owner of the lines on the cipher
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| everything in rhyme, everything is clearer
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| the recitative is sticky like a staff boarded up in a spliff
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| from the bowels of concrete slabs with a creak, a cable pulls a dead elevator
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| and I live while the city sleeps, in this delirium, distinguishing only a bit
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| I am wildly invigorated by the fifth cup of tea from the underground of the mountainous regions of China
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| look and you are what I distinguish from the bustle of the yards when I watch
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| familiar creaking, slamming doors
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| type in the tracks got into this cruel world
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| only profits move people
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| he had a choice of whom to break
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| in this city lights rarely burn when necessary
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| and no ori will not be next to acab
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| brother has its own rules on the southern outskirts of the tank city
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| plcmnt:
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| no time to think about tomorrow, looking for a gas station with my eyes
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| my babylan will wake up soon and go to breakfast
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| tailwind, lr on chtz through the center
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| I met the boys, the white VAZ arrived on the third
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| and there is something to do while bigbro is napping
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| while micro acid, but it will soon shoot through the plates
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| under this beat, the dead elevator will drag on as the days drag on
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| manky monk:
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| consciousness is expanded, outside the window the noise of cars
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| I'm alive, but this city has a different life
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| a mess in the room is not a reflection of the soul
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| I am not in it, but where the rap tank city is alive
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| this city breathes
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| passing smoke if the square is well shrouded
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| you can follow the herd, but their path is confused
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| Looking for original sound? |
| I will help you
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| while the cops take power in their hands, beat with their fists in the chest
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| I am here and in order not to fall I keep my balance
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| ignoring the hypocrisy and the fucking gestures of the beast
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| mary jane honestly without you fucked us
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| I see how cramped you are in bags
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| I see how the country is poisoned by commerce
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| the whole world is on fire - and to hell with it
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| we write songs, to the sun from the heart
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| selected bean boils on the fire and becomes more and more interesting
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| to repeat the beat more cheerfully, the style does not age
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| lp:
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| the device did not siphon and I understood everything
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| closed the wires, entered the necessary passwords
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| 0 1 1 0 0 1 no more, such a dystopia with the smell of persecution
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| I write history and I know it's worth it
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| there is a sheet on the table outside the window the yard is empty
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| a square in the fog, a body in a hoodie
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| my norms will be too small for someone
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| Eurydeus is laid up, drowning in a bucket and a half
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| with the gods in half, with the devils not in share
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| it is a mixture of northern foundations and southern methods,
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| and in the end, here is such an audio drug
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| from the bowels of concrete slabs with a creak, a cable pulls a dead elevator
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| and I live while the city sleeps, in this delirium, distinguishing only a bit
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| from the bowels of concrete slabs with a creak, a cable pulls a dead elevator
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| and I live while the city sleeps, in this delirium, distinguishing only a bit |