TRACK THIRTEEN
TAKE A BOW [Prod. GhostTown]

Stellar rays,
A fella sprays in the cellar grade, lemonade haze, it’s a day for the seller pay,
The smell of spray is the fragrance that serenades basements of vagrants and sadists and renegades,
They headed straight to the gate as they bettered fate, placing a payment to masons for severed slates,
They detonate all the places that levitate, feigning and staining the day that the terror breaks

Festering,
Testing of the Wesson he’s indentured in, wrestling the lessons, it’s a testament to mescaline,
Pestering, resting in fluorescence with a jester’s grin, entering the session as the vessel he’s successful in,
Gentle king, central in his mental was the menthol sting, gesturing and peddling confessions with a pencil swing
Censoring, embezzling the devil with a nectarine, mentoring potential, he’s resentful as the rental spins

Take a bow, take a bow,
Take a bow,
And cow tow to the sounds of the now,
Round to the crown with a pound of the loud,
Ground it and mount it, it’s hounding the drowned
 
Take a bow, take a bow,
Take a bow,
And cow tow to the sounds of the now,
Round to the crown with a pound of the loud,
Ground it and mount it, it’s hounding the drowned

He listened, heating up the old soup,
His gold tooth was positioned from the eating of the cold food,
He’s to be christened in the rose hues,
Of dole queues, he’s conditioned to the meeting with his old blues,
It’s his suspicion, and he holds clues,
That his beating of his demons was a mission for his soled shoes,
For he envisioned that his soul moves,
In position, it has stiffened but his mission was to hold fuse,
He’d treat remission as a gold boom,
As mould grew on condition it was treated as a bold move,
A deep division as his prose oozed,
A cold bruise from the gritting and admitting it’s an old wound,
A weeping vision of a joke loomed,
His own room, a collision of ambition and an old feud,
His disposition was his cold stew,
In its deficiency, existence was imprisonment for old fools

Doubt besets,
He’ll reap reason from a drought cassette, he’d sleep, leaving his achievements in a mount of debt,
He’d sleep, breathing in an ounce of ket, he’ll keep treason as a feeling, he was leaving as a malcontent,
He’d keep wheezing as he’d mount regret, he’ll meet creatures and their demons that were heaving from a shouted bet,
He’ll heat, steaming up the alphabet, He’s weak, dreaming in the heathens that were seething but without regret

Take a bow, take a bow,
Take a bow,
And cow tow to the sounds of the now,
Round to the crown with a pound of the loud,
Ground it and mount it, it’s hounding the drowned
 
Take a bow, take a bow,
Take a bow,
And cow tow to the sounds of the now,
Round to the crown with a pound of the loud,
Ground it and mount it, it’s hounding the drowned

Take a bow, take a bow,
Take a bow,
And cow tow to the sounds of the now,
Round to the crown with a pound of the loud,
Ground it and mount it, it’s hounding the drowned
 
Take a bow, take a bow,
Take a bow,
And cow tow to the sounds of the now,
Round to the crown with a pound of the loud,
Ground it and mount it, it’s hounding the drowned