Jehst

The samples, The fukkin lyricism
The alcoholic author
Son of the devil I turn wine into water
My physical forms a metaphor for disorder
Absorb the trauma
My status is borderline
And I am short of time
Read my Palm and see the evil of my forefathers
Born after the last generation of gypsies
Move from the sticks to the cities
Give me 26 characters, for home sick travellers..bicentennial men, hunter gatherers
Who run with the scavengers and brave the dangers...
My tongues a labyrinth in these maze of pages
Snowflakes cover the ground in white carpets
Seasons of espionage as time passes
The lion hearted
Survival of the hardest artist
My open arms embrace darkness
Still craving carnage and infamy, but even parasites starve in this carcass of industry
