Whatchu know about emotional ties and the jive soul of going rogue I was telling the truth again wearing crushed velvet to the gym sending the FBI love notes and threats : if you keep spying on black people we’ll keep Whitley in your ear and the rebel buzzard drone you call a heart scars every steep patch of nonsense with meaning an enemy endless machine that you carry me is a matter of your own desperation for clients for feathers scooting into the wing loosening the old rugged cross
