Throwing ash toward them, plumes say I'm cracked like glass sculptures
hitting the floor at 40 4 Max horses, on the map they just lack coordinates.
Rap chose us, this craft I've been sewing up like past clothing.
Lines better than the Salt flats globally, speeds higher than giraffe Oakley's
Feeding the brass copium, dropping a gear like raw coconuts.
God open up from this Renior dystopia, I've been painted wrong.
Framed art aint known to us. Staged carns and holy blood.
In this strange world where the woods been known to rust.