that disgusting fruit of the beige, trying to pollute even our kitheon. i feel the danger lies in not zion, or memphis, but in beige prophesy as the fish rots under his funny beat. i feel his rage is that of a dog shite encrusted acorn. or blood on fiercely mutilated groin, ball eggs in my hands. while his mother enjoyed my rape of her more then her own . my bloody sick beats. as i throth them up a mountain of tradition crumbs. rules broken just noise. the trap of teen angst i guess, or beige fun sounds. or exosketion egg kicks. beige, rust the end of a tradition. get over the inhibion of killing 'till its legal again.. like weed might be i suppose. dont play nice, these pop stars must feel the pain.. like when their aunt sucked them.. we are sound boy not pussy boy, warriors who shall give fear to them, like polish cocaine but with eyes hooked out of media sad (advert swear). i guess their lows were us.. brute force will fit them in their gravezxppp[]<>[.