TRACK SEVEN
FINEST HOUR [Prod. Farmabeats]

As the circle grows,
He was working in conversant prose, versus those vermin he would service in the circus show,
He’s determined to be worsened by external woe, nervous throes of this furnace, purpose of a serpent pro,
He was squirming as a thermos in eternal snow, burning slow, he’s a surgeon working on his wordless flow,
He’s the verdict that was spurting through his bourbon nose, hermit mode, he was lurking, purposeless in urban robes,
It was shirking the emergence of a burden, though working on a sermon was the burning he was yearning so,
He would learn of the disturbing and affirming prose, wording shows workings of a murder as the curtains close

Step aboard,
He wept the weather through a tethered cord, message board letter for abettors of his chequered board,
He would fetter his forever in a debtor’s hoard, get ignored then forget whatever that was said and yawn,
He’s regretting ever tenner in a beggar’s paws, getting more pressure than the embers in a metal forge,
He was rendered as the vendor of forevermore, never saw terror like the error of her menopause

Finest hour,
He’d chime a siren on the Eiffel Tower, rivals cower soured in the shower of his stifled power,
A title scoured by disciples of his Bible, now our idols would be siphoned through his vinyl of a rifle flower

Finest hour,
He’d chime a siren on the Eiffel Tower, rivals cower soured in the shower of his stifled power,
A title scoured by disciples of his Bible, now our idols would be siphoned through his vinyl of a rifle flower

Acid in his brain,
He’s a savage, she’d embarrass him again, it’s a marriage that he ravaged with his fame,
Damage was the game, it was packaged as a passage in a play that he lavished on her arrogance and name,
Famished from her pain, it was baggage for the vanishing array of her travels, she was banished with her chains,
Palace of decay was her hammock in comparison to lanes of her havoc in a balancing display,
Callous, he betrayed the mechanics of her vanishing away with the malice that he’d average in a day,
Managing to fray the imbalance, she’s a palette for his paint, she was battling the maddening of prey

Beast of burden,
He would feast upon a meagre person, he’s uncertain of the eager serpent that would shriek aspersions,
His mystique would speak of burning in a week of learning sermons of the sleeper vermin swerving his beleaguered squirming,
He would worsen through his cursive, it would read subversive versus the critique of urban yearning that his week determined,
He was turning in the furnace of his litre bourbon, people person but he’d speak of curtains, it would seem disturbing

Finest hour,
He’d chime a siren on the Eiffel Tower, rivals cower soured in the shower of his stifled power,
A title scoured by disciples of his Bible, now our idols would be siphoned through his vinyl of a rifle flower

Finest hour,
He’d chime a siren on the Eiffel Tower, rivals cower soured in the shower of his stifled power,
A title scoured by disciples of his Bible, now our idols would be siphoned through his vinyl of a rifle flower

Finest hour,
He’d chime a siren on the Eiffel Tower, rivals cower soured in the shower of his stifled power,
A title scoured by disciples of his Bible, now our idols would be siphoned through his vinyl of a rifle flower

Finest hour,
He’d chime a siren on the Eiffel Tower, rivals cower soured in the shower of his stifled power,
A title scoured by disciples of his Bible, now our idols would be siphoned through his vinyl of a rifle flower