Thanks Lord, The Senior
is still alive;

Psalm 27, Red & Black on the street.
Smoke and noise on the Sky;
My career lookin' dark;
Blocks at my doors, hinges off;
No privacy, no child of God to help;
Ah, hell's angels on churches;
Fake prophets, prophesying doom.

Psalm 27, let's me use my mind,
and my hands as my weapon;
Savings exhausted, I wonder if it's
the seven years of that fake prophet.

Whom to trust, fake prophet
or my business advisor; my business advisor talkin' about informal trade;
Informal trade needs me to be my own
prophet, that's the only way to go;

Father forgive me, for my sins;
I am your holy son, I never betrayed any man's business, I never committed any dispute on any man's home; let peace and success rain on my business and home.
Thanks Lord, I am your child;

Psalm 27, one day I will sing Hell Strike
is over, Holy Spirit, Holy Father, Holy Son; Let me be a billionaire.

Written by: The Senior
Date: undefined