May
Tuesday 8 January 2008 photo 1/1
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Here are the thrillseekers . . . corrupt, and immoral) (Too much, too often) I rip rock and gravel when I time travel My rhyme busts shots with the beats that I battle When I get in your head my thoughts become lead Pipes that never get the C's out of bread Straight beat the bloodstream Try to come clean Got interveaned by dream that was sweet With a three-sixty degreee turn on the globe And now you got me runnin' around my area code. *CHORUS* You got me runnin in a cyclone You got me runnin in a cyclone You got me runnin in a cyclone Coma-overdose and I'm in the zone. You got me runnin in a cyclone You got me runnin in a cyclone You got me runnin in a cyclone Coma-overdose and I'm in the zone (A'ight) Three seats for the future Birth on this earth I go up from the step for my pen to exert And the G's that revert from its natural source If reversed, I take the opposite course
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