1st Verse |

You shouldn't underestimate how dangerous these lyrics is,
They'll take your wrist and play with it like plagiarists when they were six,
Plagued with this, you'll pray and wish that you'd evade the preying fix,
But craving inks and pages, drift away into your brain a myth.

Here goes the tale of a man enslaved to the way of the mic in hand,
He chose one day to engage with rhyme and embraced him like I think I can…
Relate to you, the way you wrap my thoughts up like they're chicken and,
I wondered if maybe I could have a moment to just sit and chat.

Whilst looking back at him and declaring a toast,
With utmost care in his tone, said, I declare this your home,
The conversation started flowing as they opened up his hopes,
Dreams in droves and the deepest of those meaningful quotes.

Their, friendship it blossomed, they shared more of their problems,
They talked in confidence often, it offered a form of promise when,
Everything bothered him, he'd wander in and ponder it,
With the help of a pen and his friend, vent like an orifice.

Chorus |

When I speak, it's my wisdom,
All my words, got me here.
It's my weakness, but I escape,
In my head, curs now I'm living.

2nd Verse |

But these visits began to bind him,
He found he needed lyrics and as 'lyrics' needs an 'i' (eye) in,
A little bit of blindness developed in his life and,
A victim unto his writing he blinked and now he's inside it.

Now every evening he, gives up believing that he,
Could ever be without the feeling that he feeds when he speaks,
So with ease he retreats, into his head with the beat,
And with exceptional speed accepts the direction he needs…

Without, question he heeds that this sentence is necessary,
It'll keep him in line curs his letters are never very,
Obedient, a legion of extra sensitive characters,
Extroverts with a tendency to express their extravagance.

Together forming an army of emotions,
A collective retort to the range of thoughts that impose on,
Their respective forms to dispose of the things they don't want,
This man loves the perspective they offer, with it he grows strong.

Chorus |

When I speak, it's my wisdom,
All my words, got me here.
It's my weakness, but I escape,
In my head, curs now I'm living.

3rd Verse |

He's completely immersed within the world of Wordsworth,
Loves chilling with verbs, they're always doing a word…search,
And giving birth to a verse everyday,
He learnt how to nurture an 8, until it murdered a page...

And unperturbed, let it become one of his personal aids,
Then going hard on the track, they jumped in front of a train of...
Thought and remained in the game like a stain, lost...
In a state of deranged uhh, got to make this a paid job.

See if he should earn his wage inside of this strange land,
He wouldn't ever need to leave and could live with his paint can,
So whenever he felt blue, he could change it and paint that,
Which was maiming him a patch of radiance, shake hands.

But for now all of those,
Who hold the power to throw, this man an actual rope,
Don't know him so he goes, on hoping that each stroke,
Brings him closer to the home that he builds up with each flow.