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.