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INICIO >
SAGE FRANCIS
> PERSONAL JOURNALIST EN ESPAñOL
Letra Personal Journalist de Sage Francis original
Sage Francis
Personal Journalist
1968-2001
He left with deep breaths in each chest that needs less innovating,
Because they're still debating over what 'rhyme skill' is.
Got Sick of Waiting...for time killers to get over their murder raps.
Then he sold his own shirt off his back
For cheap exposure. He'd seek for closure but stayed open minded.
Always seemed to keep composure peeking over both his eyelids.
Speaking vulgar in misleading cultures of ultra-violence.
Teaching others how to be more loving through brotherly guidance.
A bleeding soldier knows the science. He does the math quick and writes
Without having to think twice.
Without asking for advice. Letting the scalps peel.
Having brains picked by head lice before the scabs heal.
His death mask conceals his face paint.
It feels like a safe place, but it ain't.
Feels like it safety seals fates, but it don't.
He's not a real saint. Just another one of those religious, political jokes.
And that's not even half of the nutshell cats are compelled
To crack open to extract his blood cells from.
When he comes back from hell again,
You'll have a few bones to pick with a fractured skeleton.
Sage Francis
Anti-socialite.
Secret Admirer.
Student Loaner.
Continental Drifter.
Professional Bootlegger.
Spin Doctor.
Self Referentialist.
Road Runner.
Personal Journalist.
Word is the worthless wordsmiths were conversing impersonal twists.
Heard they're concerned with making the Earth shift.
These kid games are silly. When all art is signed anonymous,
He'll turn that Big Bang Theory into a Small Pop Hypothesis.
Sage Francis.
Death Merchant.
1968-2001
Devoted son...father to none...
Husband to something soulless and didn't spend his life with who he loved.
The hardest workers in showbiz need no diamond studded glove.
'His time is up!' He's still the type poised to make a come back.
Kill the white noise until the sun's black.
Moonwalk around New York City and get murdered by flocks of sheep,
Who square dance circles inside a box of beats.
The California Dream sequences end quick.
Couldn't find middle ground in little towns on some Midwest trip.
He stood for something...but fell for every trick in the book, so he stopped believing...
In an avant garden of Eden.
'Get off the cross!' Of course we need the wood to burn a Godless heathen.
Catch him red handed...only if his palms are bleeding.
Sage Francis
Non-Prophet.
Artificially Intelligent.
Avant Guardian Angel Dust Mite.
1968-2001
It's been a pleasure. It's been a pleasure
But get out of my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face with all that sunshine
Get out my weathered face.
Letra Personal Journalist de Sage Francis en español
Sage Francis Periodista Personal 1968-2001 Se fue con respiraciones profundas en cada pecho que necesita menos innovadora, Debido a que todavía están debatiendo sobre lo que rima habilidad 'es. Conseguí harto de esperar ... por asesinos tiempo para superar sus raps de asesinato. Luego vendió su propia camisa de su espalda Para la exposición barato. Había buscan para el cierre, pero se quedó abierta. Siempre parecía mantener la compostura leerlo en ambos párpados. Hablando vulgar engañosa culturas de ultra-violencia. Enseñar a los demás a ser más amoroso a través de orientación fraternal. Un soldado sangrado conoce la ciencia. Él hace el cálculo rápido y escribe Sin tener que pensar dos veces. Sin pedir consejo. Dejar que la piel de cuero cabelludo. Tener cerebros recogidos por piojos de la cabeza antes de que las costras se curen. Su máscara de la muerte oculta su cara pintada. Se siente como un lugar seguro, pero no lo es. Se siente como Sella seguridad destinos, pero no lo hacen. Él no es un verdadero santo. Apenas otro uno de esos chistes políticos religiosos. Y eso no es ni la mitad de los gatos pocas palabras se ve obligado Para abrir una grieta para extraer su sangre cel
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