South of the Brick City • EP

by Denmark "Sweetness" Vesey

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    So, this here is the latest EP that I've put together. I haven't had too much hype leading up to this release, as I thought I'd put a little bit more into it. I thought it would come out a bit differently and be a bit longer, but I think I really like how it came out just like that. Of course, with all of the music here, the lyrics for each of them are there. None of the production is original, just like the last project, yet I hope to have all original beats on my next project. Thank you for the continuing support. Much love for all of you.




A little something I've been working on in my spare time. I hope you all enjoy this. Thank you for your continuing support. Much love and appreciation for all of you <3


released November 30, 2014

Production handled by everyone in the track credits.
All of the vocals and lyrics are by Molly Hailey.



all rights reserved


Denmark "Sweetness" Vesey Atlantic City, New Jersey

I am a hip-hop artist from the New Jersey area. I'm rather young, but I believe that I have a mindset that can more than make up for that. I enjoy writing music about my life - and that may be awkward for some to listen to. I plan to have my music identify me, so I hope that if you have any questions, please ask the music, and I am more than certain it will give you an answer. Thank you <3 ... more

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Track Name: The Twenty Six Swords of Liquid【The First One ❈ prod. Madlib & Quasimoto】
Solid writing on the wall, Vesey is your friend, Strauss.
Bridesmaid to the people even when they shed a misnomer in Laos.
Donning her pink blouse, Captain Murphy to the right of me spotting sinkers.
Throwing alley­oopers to the Clippers sneakers dekeing out of rinky­dinkers.
Tattle tattle as the snake's rattle, I'm just one voice on the microphone.
To a group of adults, I'd be a clarinet in a group dominated by sousaphone.
You never live to think about my words when I'm beating off all alone.
I make up my own S.O. ­ and cry into their shoulders when I'm G.O. ­ gone.
Brick City made me, a hundred miles away from where the struggle is.
Middle class repertoire but I feel older at sixteen than Top Cat with his dot biz.
Struggling to monopolize an enterprise with the fly skeet­scattering out my wallet.
Molly the Great berate the common fate to necessitate DeDeDe's mallet.
I'm living the high life, hating every minute.
Dresher said I was mad decent, but I bet he'll never see me in it.
That's word to my brothers and sisters back in their homestead.
My mother hates me religiously, so I got Mary to be one instead.
Learning to rock mics in 3D, fifty to seize a style, bet Molly freed me.
Some say I'm a romantic, but to live for a love seed, I'll never see.
To be my true Sweetness, you're down by me; S­W­E­E­T­I­E
Bet you never heard a cheerleader chant get incanted in my A.E.
Check the check card and check my new balance, money not the sneakers.
I excel hell through new packs, Jenny Death blasting out my speakers.
But Vess you're not a fam man? Never been a true man, never been a Persian.
I'm a feeble minded cousin from the deserts of Vegas – rugs all aversion.
Smugs all diversion – snubs all immersion – rubs all submersion.
My life is down again, so I broke fifty with a new version.
Referred to as an engagement of strange love, with the pseudonym Strangelove.
A Nostradamus next to a copy of Illmatic, wondering which will fall above.
A special shoutout to Doc P – I'll make it through your lesson, thanks for not doubtin' me.
Another one for Juli, Doge, and the Fab Four.
How's it looking out in Monmouth with the new score?
I could've taken my life a week ago, but I panicked when my knife dared show.
XCX or DMX – call me chronic. Speedin' through excuses as if my name were Sonic, so.
I wave my hands to the off beats, shake my head to reason.
You could say I hate the limelight, but I bet it's just the season.
Molly Hailey is a rock star, Facendo joined my legion.
Don't bring the endo in the Enzo or my lean will seep adhesion.
All jokes – I never sink to swim in purple moats.
Have a couple excuses left for reasons why I brought some boats.
I didn't mean to stay alive, supposed to die in ninth grade.
Now everybody wants to celebrate my life at the May Day Parade.
I could dress like I'm supposed to, but how is being cis a cherade?
Could cheer how I'm queer but the kids already Hip­Hip­Hoorayed.
MF Vesey being thrown in again for round two without sufficient electrolytes.
Cut her off the speaker and make sure the choir never hears her sound bytes.
I thought I met a stellar stud just the other day – life bites.
Turns out he's a perverted brother who gets his jollies off to boys in gym tights.
Who's to judge the game with the gavel? It's Madam VS with a neurotic­natal.
Hated since the cradle rocked back and forth as I sally­forthed to stardom fatal.
Catch me on the cover of one of Aesop's fables.
I would jump tomorrow, but I'd probably end up using bungee cables.
Tables never turning, the school's ready to begin learning.
They loved my Lamar impression, so will they love me when I'm yearning.
Plan to wear my name on my heart sleeve.
Being called a brother ever again will be my pet peeve.
My brother will never know the difference between my feminine prevalence.
He hits my parents on the down low, but they'll never know his benevolence.
Vesey born dead the same way you dream about all the presidents.
From Harrison to Kennedy, ennui and French nomenclature for evidence.
You think you love my flows now, wait until I'm up at batter.
Every time I hit the mic murderous, rancorous will always be the latter.
Hailey as the olive chaser, swerving off my median racing with the Mad Hatter.
Another key for me, I'm locked in, swervin' to Rakim, while my chest stays flatter.
Track Name: Early Remembrance【The Second One ❈ prod. MNDSGN & Ahwlee】
One day with my best face, and it's in my arms my mother embraced.
Telling me how their other half couldn't keep a straight face.
She's age 17 with a common­faulted mind space, free her one and only.
What can I do? I'm a daughter of sixteen who deals with their conflicts, dumb and lonely.
Times like this I feel the pressure going down on me again.
Thinking that her other will see the clinic like I did after the end.
Ninth grade was the year and March was the month with the vial.
Considering their struggle, I went for mental acuity in a new Nile.
In a room with Blake and the others for a week or two, let my mind wander.
On the outside, my friends thought I was dead, oh how the teens ponder.
It's more amazing to think about how you realize someone's value when their gone.
Not to say they're dead, oh god, how I wouldn't dream it in a song.
Verses encased in an odd feeble mannerism, skeletal as stiff as their broadness.
Their parents could give a care less whether they're caring or careless.
To think we've only talked a few times, but they're the other mother to me, think less.
Shouldn't be feeling this way, but without them here, I'm just nauseous.
Watch the eyeliner when the tears start flying.
Bet she'd shed a few tomorrow if we said the queers started dying.
Just to set the record straight, I'd never even think of prying.
My mothers beat out my parents without even thinking of trying.
Track Name: Something Aside From Nothing【The Third One without reference to EU ❈ prod. Atmosphere】
You all think you're the greats now, I'm waiting for my payment.
I'll never live in paradise, and I said what I meant.
This is for the people who are living to see my dying.
You'll never get a shred of dignity 'cept when I'm crying.

D.S. the Best, the Comissar of Bars.
Comissions are barred from the tars of the stars.
I hit every pore of the feeling until it's just the latter.
A madder batter makes a madder hatter while my checks get fatter.
Between a game of Hit and Run, my parents hit me thrice, it's done.
Still remember crying fifty tears just to greet the dying sun.
That's a metaphor – bet I'd snore, never even listening.
I beat amateurs up, bet I'd do it with my words, diction start glistening.
Cleaned up my foul mouth, my derriere makes tracks as Cuban made the Mavericks.
Pristine as the Listorene my teeth still pastine green all for the hitting licks.
Vesey, still messy, a little sloppy when I blast off to picks of Bessie.
Nessie was a myth, but a monomyth megaphoric is me.
Thank you, Jessie. I never was scared of making a friend until the day you came.
I used to slur my words up – ratatat lame.
You people praise me for my dogmatic lines.
But really I'm thinking it's just these new vines.
I leap and leap bounds ahead just to wait to get an ounce of head.
I cry as a woman, and live for sex as a bullet burns for lead.
What I live for is a chance to die on the set of Bill Nye.
A sweatshirt draped in tie dye, pour one out for this reverand on a driveby.
I hit a bit of fame when I dropped those bars over a Lamar sitar string song.
Now everybody's flexing Vess as their mess on a sing­a­long.
Prance­a­long to the fits of my sexuality.
And hit yourself twice if you're thinking this is my own conceptuality.
Duality not needed, I'm fine with nine lives.
The cool cats get eight, and I'm sectored off to get by fine with these nine fives.
Never working these nine­to­fives to live on a wage of ninety­fives.
I used to get all A's, but that was back when I had ninety lives.

You all think you're the greats now, I'm waiting for my payment.
I'll never live in paradise, and I said what I meant.
This is for the people who are living to see my dying.
You'll never get a shred of dignity 'cept when I'm crying.
Track Name: Slow Dance【The One After The Third One ❈ prod. Erick Arc Elliot】
I stand above the rest, never broadening my own stance.
I always thought I'd live up to the hype; success in my own glance.
Now all I have left is my left and my slow dance.
Never really knowing what I could or shouldn't be on my own lance.
Never even enjoying the feeling of owning my own pants.
Suppressed into roles I can't live up to.
A feminine fellow with flows that can't compare to Skyzoo,
To her, I'm just confused. To me, I'm just peruzzed.
I'm feeling sickly every day, but my blood's never transfused.
So what of my conveyance? Perveyance just to know.
Surveyance of my life and then I'm out with the show.
Lights in my mind, five of them blown out with the same nine.
I could only dream of answering how goes it with the word fine.
Now all I have left is my left and my slow dance.
Never really knowing what I could or shouldn't be on my own lance.
Rhymesayer's Anonymous, Soothsayer's Synonymous.
To me, the game's antonymous, Illmatic to a breath of Nastradamous.
Flow's aquatic, fillering up my facial as if life was an orthodonist.
I'm just being honest, I've never learned to act right on my sin list.
My friends have been living bowling pins since I hit my limelight.
Stage fright on the same night and my hope's gone like a red kite.
I'm supposed to be back and abstaining from the norms, but can I have a bite?
A byte to megabyte can't compare to the kigabyte of those pictures on my hard drive.
The fiftieth reason is that I'm subjected to stopping life to accommodate my hard drive.
I just want talk to my friends like they were people.
But now I'm stuck swerving mentally on my steeple.
The mental agitation is annoying, just to say the least.
Paranoia's on my mind, but I'll never find a consistent feast.
Every lunch is the same, but it's the best meal I'll ever have.
How is a school lunch better than my own fridge on my own ave?
Now all I have left is my left and my slow dance.
Never really knowing what I could or shouldn't be on my own lance.
The common wish on my agenda is to feel a chest and a bare butt.
Thinking mine is cuter, but now my lyrics are just some gay smut.
I never really know how to say just how I'm feeling.
Honesty is what I'm preaching, but please don't watch the film reeling.
I'm coming from a past where I would brag about the hard years.
I had my own hotel, filled to the brim with some goth queers.
Funny what you say at the age of eleven, others could say at thirty.
Time to check the stat sheets, I see Dre Drummond had McCurdy.
A little bit of intuition, and a supposition of fission that you should know.
I put my past up on a pedestal, and let it bury me with the snow.
I can't move on from my mistakes, won't even laugh at the spit takes.
Forgive me for spending a year drooling over your chest making saliva lakes.
Greater stakes makes greater haste, to go to waste is my honor.
Would've died about a week ago, if it weren't for my only mama.
Track Name: The Girl and The Typhoon【The Midnight Act; or, The Fifth One ❈ prod. SpaceGhostPurrp】
My name's Molly Hailey and I'm down for my own cause.
Writing feeble rapping mannerisms on my schisms; they're my own laws.
Shout out to my mama, Mary, and my other figure, Charlie.
I would never make it out the set without my family on me.
I've had to find out who is real and that was anything but easy.
The fake love that you kill for is the one that makes your stomach queezy.
I was plotting all on suicide since two thousand and late.
Now I've got a set of friends that would hold it to me if I chose my fate.
I've been wishing for a chance to go to hell for some rebates.
But it seems as if my morals will never let me win debates.
We live for what we kill for, and we give lives for real estate.
Never even touched an ounce or gram to keep my realer state.
It's all introspection, but at a closer inspection.
I would rather have stayed silent, now that I look in retrospection.
I remember at the clinic, these people chose to end it locked up.
Reminesce on the issue, to just wish there were some bleach in a cup.
I could drink it, I could leave for real, and never open up again.
At times I start to think that this microphone is my only friend.
Shout out to my brother and my puppy, on the down low.
Even if you two were different, you still kept me down like a red bow.
Black hair, pink lights, nothing doing on my skylights.
The sky's the limit and I won't take off, can't see through these dark nights.
My friends are building some visors, but I need more than an advisor.
I need something better, like a new home, been messed up since I saw a divisor.
Life's the divider, I'm the dividend, I've been killing flows just to reach a sooner end.
Talk all the talk I do, wishing they'd shoot me and Tupac too when we're round the bend.
Respect to the men who died before me, wish I could join your leagues soon.
But until we all rejoice in how Vess is a goner, please repeat this typhoon.