Obscure as the last time I wrote a rhyme to rip the Cataraps. It's another average case scenario of Vesey tip-toeing around binge traps. Seemingly simpler at this point in my Renaissance. Methodology becomes easier to grasp without much assistance. Declaring all these phrases mine as an aside from what they're really meaning. Leaning on the pillars of the grandstand of my living flaws; so demeaning. But tell me, friend, what are you truly meaning? Truly conveying? Last time I gave that girl my heart, she gave me interest and a loan surveying. It was one month. I call it a heartbeat, but others thought the amount would pile up. The dial-up is barely working, I still laugh runny noses while phones twerk on the up and up. Rhymin' up with up? Please try the shutting up. I already had to slow the lyricism down before the sums were up. Exeter and Demeter hit the mark of the hundredth listener. Making me feel euphoric without the need of an amateur teeth glistener. Do I dare to shout out the Sean Klitzner or even the Kurt Kittner? I suppose I could pull those references, but I wouldn't mean it, er. Barely can entangle my way into this trap scene. I predicted this predicament way before I even knew of lean. Never even seen it, never have the desire. Proposal of the benefactor in this factorial of the missions dire. Dire Dire Docks has a new king for hire. Throw his career off the mark and place the weight on Rick Mirer. With a little Jeezy Russell and a mix of Ant Bennett in the choir. Potential is getting higher for Vesey, sentential is where she leaves the court messy. Friends are looking sloppy, blood drooling down the wrong way; referendum of Vesey. Lesser than the rest of the kings that we were serving. People give away their mind's power just so it's the Lexus they can be swerving. Never learning their lesson, I try way too hard to convey what I mean. Worrying about the safety and the future of my friends with my ire seen. Turning it around for the sake of dancing the roundabouts with I.M. Meen. It all looks a little bit like a twist of Parisian flair, oh, now she sounds keen. Chuk still reminisces about Hejuana Swag and the Sam hating days. But all I'm wondering know is why I'm still paying to fear these new rays. It's another hip-hop mic check, before the times were starting over. People barely scared of Wilmington when they rode in from Dover. It's the reality you bite, the fight you turn to might. Never be surprised when the armor he shines is white. It's a terrifying realization, I'm still going off for my inspiration. Friends are the only fans I ever needed for this perspiration. Love and the rest, the Doge Fab Fours. I'll snap the next time they call my grand fam a bunch of whores.

Lightning never strikes the same lame career twice, the legend told, Vesey been hit thrice as the lice got old. On my formers head, but who's to say who doesn't have the gift of dandruff whilst Rough and Ready got told. A simplified brain trust, Vesey is the Chancellor. The one and only Golden Girl with the misspent genitalia. King of all the King's men, but the Queen of all the King's men, prefix adjustment so the masses aren't hating ya. I speak in broken acronyms, so that way the slander I denounce is what's great for geese, also for the gander. The Sims before the Sander, the Lowe before the Hyde – A Jekyll Effect for my normality in a one-man band, er. They speak with the thrilling voice sending shills down your spinal cord and nervous verbosity. Vesey brought a gravitas and story for your curiosity, but no one bothered to thank them for their generosity. How can he go from a hero to a zero? How can she make you feel like there's nobody else to fear, oh? Shuttered from the needle pin, to make this sick lick as agonizing in a witness position as a thick tick, so. Chant it one time. DSV is going HRT. The hurt is what you're feeling. The hurt is what you're bleeding. Bet your only heart they'd be singing. If only their heart wasn't stinging. Vesey. Back for round two. As if to say the only reason he keeps swinging is so he can rank with Badu. A hint of Indigo-ism with a bottle of hash, a conquest to make your favorite MC bare fast for an early curfew. Sigismundo; the one and only one comparative to a declarative derivative of Sweetness on her lamest day. I never was one for engagement, but to follow in one's covenant, shouldn't you find a better way to say gay? Not like I'm sweating or nothing, but the verbal herbal conditions are nothing to write home about to your others. Could have guessed it was your mothers. It's alright, Vesey has caring hand all Union-frenetic, Lincoln's brothers. Sister or mister, whatever your desire. I'm tired of making a million off of being my only virgin choir. Go one round against me, see if you can test R-O-Z-A-E, he's universal, I'm anti-social. But you still buy her. Another day, another bite to eat. Vesey keeps the flow banging even though there's no one after 'feat.' I'm alone in this hip-hop, so will anybody notice if it's off these stairs that I hip-hop, that's thirty feet. Chant it one time. DSV is going HRT. The hurt is what you're feeling. The hurt is what you're bleeding. Bet your only heart they'd be singing. If only their heart wasn't stinging. As I sit back and I hone this craft. I come to realizations that music is my exodus from parental concentrations. These vivid motivations, I have the mental potential to make it out of this dingy corner of solitude in mediations. I have that single gift, some call it the will to live, but I call it the humanistic knack for knowledge. She wants to see the world without even spending fifty dollars on a textbook for his college. A lot of people in this world would scoff at my ingenuity, I see through knocks like barbed wire. Obscuro stratas on my oculist, so it's shook. Down from the skyline, I gaze upon you, I am your sire. For hire, Vesey gives verses away in the same quantity as feeble curses usurped in an odd inertia. The intermolecular forces betwixt me and the limelight is impassable, a one and only shield; theological precursor. My friends would rather take their life than take a test, so who am I supposed to detest? Them or my society, I'm done with notoriety, so please give me a noose and a spotter to see me lay to rest. Chant it one time. DSV is going HRT. The hurt is what you're feeling. The hurt is what you're bleeding. Bet your only heart they'd be singing. If only their heart wasn't stinging. A few more bars before the candle's blown, suppose I could recall the fonder memories of timing yore. You're my one and only, blond-haired crone to my only story, the truth and nothing but it in this lore. Erasure of my tendencies to tangle my truth in a twist of wrist and paradigm; reality, not even a dime. It's that time again, tick tick what's that? Another diversion away from telling you you're all that; time. The subject of my composition, if I could give my gifts away with a knife incision could you be my new division. To think I haven't told you yet that my feminine self is introverted and away being the subject of my new revision The matter sort of makes me feel like I have no control over what part of me you're saying. Not to say Vesey is fake, they are just an abnormality, the ridiculous truth is that I want to be you're laying. We can count the stars without the jussive jocular comments. You can bet we're seeing similar when you spot those enamoring comets. Chant it one time. DSV is going HRT. The hurt is what you're feeling. The hurt is what you're bleeding. Bet your only heart they'd be singing. If only their heart wasn't stinging.

Denny Sweets Vesey, the poster child for secrecy with the mic in her hand, regurgitated from my oral gland. Half as bland as Vaudeville with a hint of adolescence prevalence and cynicism while bathing in the sun-tint sand. I run with the best of the cyanide abusers in this suicidal crew of crude has-beens and will-bes as a maybe. Wavering on gender fluidity with Damien and Kaitlyn on the sideshow of this slide-show in rarity they say she. Mad flows as those knows their nose blows on the track-list, five songs of admirable feats at the track meet. Loving in the fast lane, while living a pedestrian style of terrible astigmatism in a bungalow of rotten meat. From the north side of Vegas, to the west side of Tampa Bay, to the south side of Dallas, to the east side of AC. Solemn warnings of effervescence with any encounter with me these days fillet a relay of ignorance-Tish race-y. The child as a poster for future hatred and all that, they're different, grandiloquent and eloquent in speaking. Which is tweaking my inner monologues, referral to the top, they never saw it, Vesey leaves believers leaking. To make a friend out of a follower, an end out of a start; take the building from the top and level it to sound. The ground, around, circuitous, avoid the obvious in conversating; suppose you're Fantasia to my book of resound Abound in all these explanations, I never tried to make it obvious that I was what I am; it all came out of nothing. Had two groups I thought I had a future with, but that all fell through like the love I was imploring something. Depressive is a constant adjective that I hide in front of Vesey, “Sweetness” is a way for me to mimic Payton. Can't amount to anything when having talent is your occupation, preoccupied with gender while playing Layton. A few more bars before the song is done, my story and my guide will set in accordance with the Summer Sun. I wish you'd listen for forever, but by the time Wayne drops you'll be gone with the rest of the crowd, I'll be hung. Don't be sorry that you never cared when I shed a tear for Broadway, you all were just witnesses to evolution. Darwin never seemed to find the human of his theory, I can be the one to sacrifice a bit of sanity for dilution. If I make it successive, you'll know that society has made it progressive because I'll make it just on rap skills. Be sure to remind me if my hype leads me to believe my potential is still higher than the Catskills.

Vesey. The man inside the mirror precedes you, as if he had a say on who or what you want to be today. I come before the people with a proposition. I'm only taking one victim, see if they can breath steady. The prophetic wordings of an analytic depressive teenager are as true as the former explicates this, ready? Vesey only knows one other option, self-affliction of the mass murder, as if someone didn't say that yesterday. The majors haven't heard this because Sweetness is his benefactor, but I'm also sad I haven't heard Admiral. Names are only valuable when you have the stamina to back more than an Acura; I'm straight bragging. These adult figures are nothing but six figures, I grow up in the middle-class with some people who hate sagging. Not to say I do it, its the judgment that I'm purging, and every time I don't they claim it's admirable. What's the big deal if I could swing front or back on the swing-set, the button's hanging steady & I'm one to reset. Noon of the dawning, six o'clock and I'm yawning, who's the next victim of circumstance? I'm thinking me. Viscosity is conceptual, but not in the brink of this intellectual. Sexual, my deviations, nothing here to see. With a sip of Hennessey and brew, I'm sure you'll be back for more before your bloodshot eyes make a sunset. Denmark, darling, that's a profitable concept. Referral to myself in third before the lovers made it to first. Some people live in blissful ignorance and ask me for a pass back, I frown and give them waivers, why so? Is it natural forgiveness or my forgiving futurity? For every penny I got from wondering, I'd start a charity, no. A penny for my thoughts, people gave me quarters. You can bet they raised me fifty when I question their worst. Critics realize I'm awful when I'm down in my worst, but look at these precocious vocals, these are me at my best I'm hating people when they give me awkward looks at my chest, saying Derulo's hot before they lay him to rest. It's not as obvious, but I've been stimulating my breast, just to make the feminine attire give them a trial to test. Better believe my parents doubt me when I dress to impress, so when I say I hate their mind, I zip it in a vest. Vesey kills Vesey, the Man on the Moon. The Urban Spaceman of the Rap Game, this steaming hot mess. I'm about to roll a seven and monopolize these bets, Park Place is my place for the fiftieth hour. Man of the tower, I'm the manure. People complaining about these others and their angel shower. You already got married once, who are you to criticize your daughter? It's slaughter, the way I kill stress. I write a couple of bars and then I fear I'll regress, but these are just some mild tribulations. I already told the one that I'm trans and they knew it, fear in their heart as my sexuality's brewing. But it's alright, I guess, I'll play it off cool and then I'll stab myself for a while while the cat's mewing. Do I need a permission slip for this next field trip? Happiness seems so far away outside of simulations.

Just wanted to send a sentiment to the afterlife by making a mental sacrament, verbalized to compensate. A staple of my motley settlement for years upon the tears and foundation that I've wasted just to agitate. The only heart I ever had – people never understand partition, volition to honor the fallen among mortals. You've been there for years, back when I was immature and dreamed up my own disillusion out of portals. Always letting me have my happiness and never trying to put it down out of anger at my childish intent. We were friends from the side of the moon to the side of After; still sound like a hentai girl on the indent. The only real friend I've had without that villainous tactician, never had a fight over anything but your sigh. Try to reinvent that voice one last time; but then you tell me that tomorrow at this time that you might die. Never ever will I sing another song. Just as long as you're living, I can sing along. But now you're simply fading and I can't play along. Rest quietly, Emmii, you won't be gone for too long. Never ever will I sing another song. Just as long as you're living, I can sing along. But now you're simply fading and I cannot play along. Rest quietly, Emmii, you won't be gone for too long. To write a song to slay a friend in happiness seems to be quite simply the way out of the pearly gates. Really, the only song a rapper can write is how he loves a girl all sentimentally, it was platonic as the crowd hates. To think on this pedigree that I'm standing yet again is a challenge for telepathy, our wavelength is wavering. A top the teeter top as the living beater stops, putting bleach down her throat until the colors start vaporing. Reality is darker on the Black Side, so please come back to life so I can stop worrying about my friend side. Very few can live to standards you have set, on that listening standpoint, you stood atop the top others would hide Not like you'll believe me anymore, I'm just another voice. Please know if it were up to me you'd be my 1st choice As a true companion, a Lenny to a George. A partner here for fighting, not for loving, that's another gorge in vice. Never ever will I sing another song. Just as long as you're living, I can sing along. But now you're simply fading and I can't play along. Rest quietly, Emmii, you won't be gone for too long. Never ever will I sing another song. Just as long as you're living, I can sing along. But now you're simply fading and I cannot play along. Rest quietly, Emmii, you won't be gone for too long. It's tough for me to face a loss at first glance, now I'm seeing double like the time I saw my knife and first chance. Now I see you hovering around the ball of eight and trying to make it running great away from the ruthless trance All I talk about is social adversity and double downing, but losing a friend to death is truthful Debbie Downing. I simply don't know what to do, so please forgive me when I usurp the future crowning. I'm probably off contemplating whether I should be breathing or simply drowning...