Lyrics:
See that's a little Don Juan game
All across your chest like Sean John's name
Niggas tryna figure out since Kan' came
Who the rookie of the year:
Me
By all your saints still striving
For all your saints at rest
Your holy name, O Jesus
Forevermore be blessed!
For you arose victorious
That they
By all your saints still striving
For all your saints at rest
Your holy name, O Jesus
Forevermore be blessed!
For you arose victorious
That they
an accurate account
The LORD sent prophets to announce His coming
Last one before He came ate locust and honey
His name John the Baptist, his message stunning
I guess it's now or never
Entertainment by definition is a form of activity
That holds the attention or interest of an audience
We live in a world
but yo ass got hit (You fat as fuck)
Pull up on the opps, take a mega dookey
Blik singing tunes, damn that shit was looney
I'm real spooky, you ain't
The great Gaels of Ireland
The race that God made mad
For all their wars are merry
And all their songs are sad
words remembered by John A. Roche
I know a man whose plow handle hand is quicker than a light
Wes Hardin is his name they say he travels in the night
For he might have to kill
and never fell
I spent my time in a plush hotel
John-John Phenomenon, deadly but calm
Word to my born, dead by dawn
Got the right to bear arm, ring
out of the mist came the blackcoat priests
With the cross and the name of Jesus
Then the redcoats came and the words
That soon echoed in the woods were
and bronzed in a glass jar inside of a hall
With my framed autographed sunglasses
With Elton John's name on my drag wall
I'm out the closet, I've been lyin'
the 1970s, I am privileged to know that my Bullock family lineage dates as far back as 1819. I not only know this as an honored fact, I know the names
Created by white men or any other white man
That pretended he originated
And contended that he innovated a jazz thing
Of course we know who can really blow
with taking sole credit
You'd better think again, 'cause I am not gonna let it
So he gets both our last names, and by that same token
playing, I turn ya chest into a flesh wound
Ha, you would never guess who in my guest room
Now they saying "just me Tune!"
[Hook]
Tunechi, that what they
Blow! Blow! Blow)
That's ironic (Y yeah! Blow)
Ironic (yeah! Blow! yeah)
Salt all in my wounds
Hear my tears all in my tunes
Let my life loose in this
could work it out, yeah, you could work it out
It's like that, and a
And we got it like that (like that)
You know we got it like that (like that
could work it out, yeah, you could work it out
It's like that, and a
And we got it like that (like that)
You know we got it like that (like that
I know a man whose plow handle hand
Is quicker than a light
Wes Hardin is his name
They say he travels in the night
For he might have to kill
This tune, a big tune man, from Falameno Then why they have a wonder what they do? The shit I been through, they don't really have a clue No fool, no
along, hammers banging to the drums of the song
Covered in grease
The next track will be the one that we want
Aye, No Olivia John
I went over on my data
on the seven sea(l)s
Tell me who's that writin'
Tell me who's that writin'
John the revelator
Tell me who's that writin'
Call at him by his name
I been floatin'
Pussy AIDS
John Pussy once told me of a place
A little town by the name of Wexford
He claimed there was a casino
Up the road from the Cineplex, yeah
I
This song is a derivative of Child Ballad 44, with a tune by
A. L. Lloyd. It was recorded by John Roberts & Tony Barrand on
Dark Ships in the Forest,
-8643.jpg/225px-John_Scofield_(cropped)-8643.jpg "John Scofield")
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