Verse 1

I’ve never been fraud, or switched to' an odd pitch, to retrieve lauding even when a bitch did applaud

When I lift my leg or mic, when I'm pissing or advice giving spitting to the mist just know I did it for God

Course correction is a due affection in house 

A cheddar brick to a thin mouse is better than the trapping peanut butter

Nevermind the two slice and the who's nice when proving the moving might be up buttering me but in the gutter

I can't play charades of the fan blades that's 

Blowing a wicked air and smoking with no seed of a proceed

When indeed a slow weeded drag-ging inhaler can tell

if the whiffing of the lifted sniffer is bitter and OD'd

Overtly disgruntled with a ticket and front row thicket and thorn bleaching to the feature performance

And if you thinks that's overreaching or non-sober approach to preaching, peep my noted overcoat that hasn't been worn since 

Heart brush strokes ain't flush for the must-crush-folks whose art’s to discuss parts they just can't feel

Not because they can't be felt but the way their pain is dealt it's the soul's mirror appearance that they hope ain't real

It's The [who am Iiiiii] and the truth they’re refusing in conjunction with the jazz and function listening to your music

Unwilling to embrace that it's the grace of God, and face the odds tenacity and the audacity that you choose it

So the nar-row projection is a limited section with plenty of seats that has em all bunched together

And the puss and ill feelings, concealed, are then revealed, and with or without the umbrella comes the weather... or not

But with the purposing to blow up the spot

And the pieces of the shrapnel burst and happen to you

But the fact and the real plan's satanic and states what a fan...who really hates rapping will do.... FAN BLADES