and listen These are the true demon flowers These are the true demon flowers Stand back everyone, blood black everyone Blood black, stand back Who'll build a box for Black
when i catch you im gonna bust your dick roll up a blunt, chewy and tai stick i snort caine, and do cocktails make way for the six five killa whale that love to box
My outlet is full of powerful niggas Electrify ya tie, spark up the lah Keep the room dark, let me fill out my high Then slap box my ghost till one of
is full, ranches with bulls And wolves there, who sit around, fronting in Wu-Wear I slam a Noodles hat, pull hair, two tokes and Ghost In a ghost, I
it, freeze Still a 'Juvenile' at '400 Degrees' Lil' girls still fallin' out, I'm still ballin' Crawlin' out the hottest speeds on these ATL streets From the Garden to the box
at it Freeze Still the juvenile at 400 degrees Lil girls still fallin out I'm still ballin Crawlin out the hottes b's on these ATL streets From the garden to the box
trace of the evidence Bodies sit in box chopped up in pieces His soul done rose, I placed them tubes up under my mattress My conscience is black and
Who'll make his mark The captain cried To the devil drink a toast We'll glut the hold With cups of gold And we'll feed the sea with ghosts I see your
a doorway to a bed And the ghost of who he might have been lives on inside his head In a canyon made of brownstone on a sidewalk icy black He wanders
reach A murder of crows judged my every footstep My bones were frozen Penniless and entirely out of breath I washed my beautiful hands in the black
the clocks Tree knocked over Inside an empty box And I don't live anywhere Black Angel Black Angel Black Angel Carry me down Black Angel Black Angel Black
in Madrid And you decked some fucking black shirt who was cursing all the Yids At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer But the ghosts
't pop shit Fuck jail, I'm on my payroll cop shit I call that bootleg cable, it's no box shit All black, lookin' grimey in the crowd Heat on him, no shirt
Hell no Bitches get fucked on the roof when I ain't got no hotel dough I'm known for yoking jacks And beatin them with smoking gats Leavin token blacks
was blood all over my hands, I must have did it I'm in handcuffs and these people keep screaming Yelling at the police Man he's not breathing Flatline, I blacked
[Madrox] Sometimes when they visit I wonder 'Can they hear me?' I'm scratching at the box and screaming out quite clearly I'm so lonely. My one and only
Yeah, the police'll laugh You won't be laughing when your covered wagons crash You won't be laughing when you're hosted by the ghost of Christmas past
-to-play-to-lose And you can see a sitting duck grow up into a baying wolf Live Teller Number 7 looking weathered Like a decade in a glass box yelling