Attack by the critical rats that spat back nothing but black ash and soot like they have something in their mouth but it's there own foot. Look I am not a symbol to follow but this soul was once hallow and lost and I payed the cost of lacking a conscience no connection with a single soul but I told the first words and beat back the demons with the herds that follow. I put no rice in my bowl till the last soul is brought in from the cold, much like Chuck norris my night consists of waiting, because I say fuck adoring these dreams I would just a soon partake in the black soul trading to live in for the rest of my days. I put the pestilence in the plague but I refuse to take away the blessing of life,for which no matter how cunning my strife, I would never be able to restore and it's like the core of fibrous being to be teeming with the beaming precedence of the pre-tense, but I have bean beaten back here in the present because I am still tucked in repentance and life is my sentence so I speak in tongues to keep these prophets on their toes with my spirit wrung in and out of the mob bucket and splattered with bits of me flowing out the back of a 1950's diner. I spat kinder in sense but in retrospect I love they way I present my dialect like dialogued to death even though one can finish when they want, but you can't rhyme without a little bit of fun.