with their refuse and shame. You?ll have to pry their words from my cold dead lips. There?s a storm-a-brewin?, the smell is intoxicating. We?re sick
around the writer's block and find the poet's tree, johnny rockwell you know it's me, my past is a matter of when and if, not a matter of fact, pressure
the one, two, three Black male hard MC Rap record slave, a brother on the scene With a machine gun and one magazine Wanted, a half a million for the
