Luyện nghe bài hát Personal Journalist

Sage
Journalist

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

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

A bleeding soldier knows the science. He does the quick and writes
Without to think twice.
Without asking for advice. Letting the peel.
Having picked by head lice before the scabs heal.

His death mask conceals his 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 half of the nutshell cats are
to crack to extract his blood cells from.
When he comes 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 Theory a Small Pop Hypothesis.

Francis.
Merchant.

son...father to none...

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

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

It's been a pleasure. been a pleasure

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