1800
Now they can put guns to my head,
And wave me flipped for dead,
The terminator not related to the intro,
Accepting him be glory to our savior’s temple,
Everything put up a fuss to confess,
Every Sunday he looks his best,
Too many homies got questions to ask,
Fear of green of what was past,
He is heart like the bodies of the trade,
Standing heard of what was made,
Yes I want her anonymous of our fall,
A family ties in bumbled balls,
Exactly the prophet’s irrational Scotch,
A taste so simplistic unaware of the plot,
Scenes as bloody but slow from hell,
Two distances apart equal to sell,
By giving a chance he pleas to bold,
The tears I brought from madness told,
I’m not ashamed of the gospel house,
Overcoming death cooked back by routes.
