This fallen angel could stitch a wing with a shoestring
The prime directive selects reflective aviation bathed in mood swing
I'm broke, I know a walking corpse who'd spit icicle dagger to slit throat
Quicker than you can prove there's four letter in hope
I paint a portrait from my cell called life
Inside the tortoise shell, tortured
Orbiting hell's orchard intrigued but not compelled
I smell a hint of charred child flesh sweeping through my quarters
Order one canteen of liquid caffeine and eclipse the slaughter
Now is you is the villain of my kabuki hologram cuz I hobble with hollow hands

//bluh.. so sick of people who always seem to think hiphop is about gangsters, money and bitches. if you know nothing about it, dont talk about it, morons.