Luyện nghe bài hát Personal Journalist

Sage
Journalist

He left deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating,
Because they're still debating over "rhyme skill" is.
Got Sick of Waiting...for time killers to get over murder raps.
he sold his own shirt off his back

For cheap exposure. He'd for closure but stayed open minded.
Always seemed to keep peeking over both his eyelids.
Speaking in misleading cultures of ultra-violence.
Teaching others how to be more loving through guidance.

A bleeding soldier knows the science. He the math quick and writes
Without having to twice.
Without asking for advice. the scalps peel.
Having brains picked by lice before the scabs heal.

His death mask his face paint.
It feels a safe place, but it ain't.
Feels it safety seals fates, but it don't.
He's not a real saint. another one of those religious, political jokes.

And that's not even half of the cats are compelled
to crack open to extract his cells from.
When he back from hell again,
You'll a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton.

Sage
Anti-socialite.
Admirer.
Loaner.
Drifter.
Bootlegger.
Doctor.
Referentialist.
Runner.
Journalist.

Word is the worthless wordsmiths were conversing twists.
Heard they're with making the Earth shift.
kid games are silly. When all art is signed anonymous,
He'll turn that Big Bang into a Small Pop Hypothesis.

Francis.
Merchant.

son...father to none...

Husband to something soulless and didn't spend his with who he loved.
The hardest workers in need no diamond studded glove.
"His time is up!" He's the type poised to make a come back.
Kill the white until the sun's black.
Moonwalk around New York City and get murdered by of sheep,
Who square dance inside a box of beats.
The California Dream end quick.
Couldn't find middle ground in little on some Midwest trip.
He stood for something...but fell for every in the book, so he stopped believing...
In an garden of Eden.
"Get off the cross!" Of course we the wood to burn a Godless heathen.
him red handed...only if his palms are bleeding.

Sage
Non-Prophet.
Intelligent.
Avant Angel Dust Mite.

It's been a pleasure. It's been a

But get out of my face with all that sunshine
Get out my face with all that sunshine
Get out my face with all that sunshine
Get out my face.