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The illness prolific, let the wordsmith begin. |
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Haste with reservation, neither chi or Zen |
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Could create quite the conflict. |
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All are not know and not seen. |
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Eclipsed in the credit of creation. A murky at best running stream |
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Of these men who claim contact, by pointing their limbs to the sky. |
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They were so special and chosen, to place all this fear in disguise of |
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Jesus Faux King Christ. |
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A martyr symbolic to this very day |
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A scapegoat for most I am sorry to say. |
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Hundreds of years, of serving up fire |
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Enough to manipulate, not to inspire |
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Jesus Faux King Christ! |
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Taxless and corporate in "Gambino" ways |
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A pleasant umbrella just do what he says. |
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Our evolution proved, that all else is fraud |
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The sun and the moon is what I call god. |
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The madness horrific, let your wordplay end. |
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You've got no reservation, all just earth on the mend |
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That's what creates your little conflict. |
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Your ticket to ride has expired. |
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Your owed no credit for creation, just blame for the shame you've conspired. |
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To be all these men who have contact. |
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You point all your hopes to the sky You are not special or chosen |
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Just fear in disguise of Jesus Faux King Christ! |