Luyện nghe bài hát Personal Journalist

Sage
Journalist

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

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

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

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

And that's not even of the nutshell cats are compelled
to crack open to extract his blood from.
he comes back from hell again,
You'll have a few to pick with a fractured skeleton.

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

Word is the worthless wordsmiths were impersonal twists.
Heard they're concerned making the Earth shift.
These kid games are silly. When all art is anonymous,
turn that Big Bang Theory into a Small Pop Hypothesis.

Francis.
Merchant.

son...father to none...

Husband to something soulless and spend his life with who he loved.
The hardest workers in showbiz no diamond studded glove.
"His time is up!" He's the type poised to make a come back.
Kill the white noise until the black.
Moonwalk around New York City and get by flocks of sheep,
Who square dance circles a box of beats.
The Dream sequences end quick.
Couldn't find middle in little towns on some Midwest trip.
He for something...but fell for every trick 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.

Francis
Non-Prophet.
Intelligent.
Avant Guardian Angel Mite.

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

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