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Picturesque view from behind the wheel I'll send you a post card. I'm pushing vouges down the boulevard. Vogue on em. Pose for them camera pose ass niggas its the rose carrot gold from unknown. Pyramid alegience through the flesh and bone matter. After throne title niggas rarely challenge god. Holding false idols on a pedestal. My niggas is religion been the subject and the predicate invading your home and travel playlists. Fix a plate and do the dishes when the guests arrive at dinner time.

Suit and tie doing 95. I-69. The Flow divine. Lyrics innertwine with the rhythem feel the vibe or get found inside of ditches mentality. NRK that's everyday. Until the grave. Family. Crest on chest be magnet to the cash in the stash away. Next to the stash. Next to the blast away. River weather Grey outside my window pane. Rain fx. Visions of making it out these Pyrex projects.

We Smoking doja in the dojo. Never ducking po po. In the low low driving slow she slip off her manolos. Perfume coco. Match frames to shade acid eyes. Actually trippy. You drunk and acting like you juicy j. we Blowing skunk and purple haze. Don't think you won't catch the fade. Catch you out of line we gon let them tools. sarinade. Resonate. Vacate local tropical. Started from the bottom layer now we epidermal glow topical.

Find me on the Rodney Dangerfield show, ahead of my time, go with the flow, embedded in the mind, driving down route one, playing that jazz, call me Jim Cunningham cos I’m so rad, mack’ing the cuties with the automatic bazooty, so what sue me, clue me in, maybe you could ask Marvin, what’s really going on? starving for a Darko song, one more false move and they all gone

Never see me with a floozie at the mall, I’m watching foreign movies with the subtitles on, you ain’t in the game till you got a thousand tracks, rap snitches bragging 'bout selling crack, not the super, you live vicariously through your computer, you ain’t the future of shit, you’re just David Porter, How’s your sister? it’s been a few weeks since I pork’d her, I’ll take a spiked bat and bang them shits, straight torture

Jailor man and Sailor Sam searching everyone, but they won’t find me, I’m Mr. Jones, spun the naked gun, but I’m home alone, hold the phone, slap the ice cream cone out yah hand, should’ve known I’m the man, working on it like the worst band in the world, gets necklaces and pearls, I want my quarter, 2 dimes and a nickel back, do yah math or be wiggity whack, ever more sicker perhaps, a dull boy like Jack, in Payless Shaq’s

You can’t tell me nothing, I’m gonna do something
You can’t tell me nothing, I’m gonna be something


released 31 July 2014
Written by Pyramid Vritra & DarkoTheSuper
Produced by Doc Heller



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