TRACK TWELVE
CROWN [Prod. Badhabitz]

Drop the beat,
It was the equal of an Oxford Street, noxious heat, it’s a dream of Eden that was obsolete,
He’s was regal in a sea of mediocrity, reading him the evil of a re-appealing Socrates,
He was breathing, “how medieval is bureaucracy? People are illegal and deceitful in hypocrisy”,
He’d retreat in the cathedral of theocracy, weasel that could feasibly conceive of a democracy

Puppet wakes,
He would be coveting a dozen fakes, summit shakes as he plummets, tumbling to fucking snakes,
He was a grumble in the nothingness, a stomach ache, cutting up a runner into hundreds as the blood escapes,
The fun of stuffing a discussion for his running mate, buttoned and disgusting he was rushing in his cunning’s wake,
He was gunning for a something or a dumb mistake, summers of her blushing while they’re running on the rubber lake

Coming for the crown,
He was sonning and encumbering the clowns that were running with the funniest of nouns,
Running with a sound that was rumbling the scummiest of frowns, it was running in the crummiest of towns

Coming for the crown,
He was sonning and encumbering the clowns that were running with the funniest of nouns,
Running with a sound that was rumbling the scummiest of frowns, it was running in the crummiest of towns

User face,
He was a human with a boozer’s taste, looting space with a new computer in a coup de grace,
He’d eschew the blue recruiter for the lunar base, who to chase, but the slew accruing the producers place,
He would do a huge accoutrement to gruesome fate, losing race to the shrewd pursuing of the news of late,
He’d recruit the few consumers that his crew defaced, rumour-based ruins in the future of his music base

Streets of rage,
He’d retreat into his seat and gauge, either way, he was meeting demons of his week today,
He’s but meat in the besieging of his easel page, foetal stage, he was speaking peacefully but people change,
He’s the weasel that retreats into the meagre stage of weakness and obliqueness that’s the genus of his equal say,
It was gleeful in its evil and its venal way, lethal sage that was preaching reasons for illegal pay

Coming for the crown,
He was sonning and encumbering the clowns that were running with the funniest of nouns,
Running with a sound that was rumbling the scummiest of frowns, it was running in the crummiest of towns

Coming for the crown,
He was sonning and encumbering the clowns that were running with the funniest of nouns,
Running with a sound that was rumbling the scummiest of frowns, it was running in the crummiest of towns

Speaking evil,
He was the reason for the weak and feeble, decent people freezing as he preaches from a screaming eagle,
It was treasonously bleak and he was seeking legal meaning for the demons that were teasing in his streaming sequel,
But he would team with the illegals to critique the people’s gleefully deceitful interceding of them being equal,
He was feasibly medieval in a bleak cathedral, sneaking for a peak of the upheaval from the leaking steeple

Maddest dream,
He would open up the can of beans of habits that were broken in the oceans of his anarchy,
He was woven as a token of humanity, rolling with the rodents that were smoking in the canopy,
He’s emboldened by the omens in his tapestry of malice that was closing before glowing as a battery,
It’s exposing his evolving as a travesty, moment of condolence as he’s swollen from the apathy 

Coming for the crown,
He was sonning and encumbering the clowns that were running with the funniest of nouns,
Running with a sound that was rumbling the scummiest of frowns, it was running in the crummiest of towns

Coming for the crown,
He was sonning and encumbering the clowns that were running with the funniest of nouns,
Running with a sound that was rumbling the scummiest of frowns, it was running in the crummiest of towns