May 2017
1 Corinthians 11:5
"But every woman that prays or prophesies with
her head uncovered dishonors her head: for that
is one and the same as if she were shaven."
As she prays her head's in praise
She meditates and her alignment is what has them prey
Her hair is worn in algorithms
So you see a circuit board or mother board of a new age black unknowing
Algorithms aligning her soul with the spirit's accord - they will try to abort
So they make her wear hair of trimmings like when lands split
So soon she'd forget the fist of her Alkebulan print
Her hat covers the map to the heavens where she'd captain, from braids to the afro we find terraces of the cosmos...
I see the keys of the piano and then I know that music is the language in which the verses union the Source wrote
Woo a man with womb and bring man's seed forth to expand the clan
Conscentise the concave mind to open eye to the cosmic kind
Patterns of pathways a patent, paintings on hide of dinoaours latent
But her hair is worn high and that's not esteem, instead it's a yellow thigh
Stereo paging on the cell telephone to tell her she's a foe to sink all your woes and curb them with her ******* and wrap you in her steatopygia.
But in her hair her head they would embed things the black gods would dread and then a set for the silicon concept, a new tribe is bred
And to be fair is the paler hue rather than the iridescent swarthy tune
And we're globed in a speherical rationale where a flat earth is irrational but the self as a governing god the logical equation
So then we're in a situation
Her hair cannot be antennae because they tan her and fan her to the popular grammar, sentenced to the prison cell of a hashtag. Her real hair is rags and her significance is concealed by an iPhone and a bag.
"But every woman that prays or prophesies with
her head uncovered dishonors her head: for that
is one and the same as if she were shaven."
As she prays her head's in praise
She meditates and her alignment is what has them prey
Her hair is worn in algorithms
So you see a circuit board or mother board of a new age black unknowing
Algorithms aligning her soul with the spirit's accord - they will try to abort
So they make her wear hair of trimmings like when lands split
So soon she'd forget the fist of her Alkebulan print
Her hat covers the map to the heavens where she'd captain, from braids to the afro we find terraces of the cosmos...
I see the keys of the piano and then I know that music is the language in which the verses union the Source wrote
Woo a man with womb and bring man's seed forth to expand the clan
Conscentise the concave mind to open eye to the cosmic kind
Patterns of pathways a patent, paintings on hide of dinoaours latent
But her hair is worn high and that's not esteem, instead it's a yellow thigh
Stereo paging on the cell telephone to tell her she's a foe to sink all your woes and curb them with her ******* and wrap you in her steatopygia.
But in her hair her head they would embed things the black gods would dread and then a set for the silicon concept, a new tribe is bred
And to be fair is the paler hue rather than the iridescent swarthy tune
And we're globed in a speherical rationale where a flat earth is irrational but the self as a governing god the logical equation
So then we're in a situation
Her hair cannot be antennae because they tan her and fan her to the popular grammar, sentenced to the prison cell of a hashtag. Her real hair is rags and her significance is concealed by an iPhone and a bag.
