His last words were show/biz
I plan to stay a believer
Her last words were show/biz
I plan to stay a believer
His last words were show/biz
And the healer's infinite scandal is pretending to be other than yourself
And this disintegration becomes disinterest and sho is nice to be a believer
Her last words were show/biz
And sho is nice to be the actress fumbling on a tightrope chanting all traps are like that backwards into his contraband of lastness
and meaning drums. I always mean drums like Duke Ellington under words they are the sole witnesses to our pledged integrity revoked by action. I sat around dreaming up ways to make a rich man proud for raising me, his black actress, his last words were show/biz — it finally has to be about conversation, why we pick this embarrassed planet, to become the grammar of supposedly invisible classes of meaning and I'll show no mercy in becoming
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Where do you think black entertainment will be five years from now?
All traps are like that. Drummers and wanna be drummers smiling occult kitsch while they get high in kitchens or five o'clock back alley blues out a window a whole generation of nameless children groomed for shame. Ennobled, asking, is the desert a ruined ecosystem, is it really supposed to go down like this, vapid and elaborately beautiful, same mule, same vault, sound bitten from a false plea
so now we know a little bit about how this creature lives some spectators will grimace
Somewhere between chicken and windchimes we've grown afraid of our music all traps are like this Patient self-made men
