Sutherland - Wrestling Devils lyrics

Roots from the Father that tossed the seed The rotten apple of children left to sprout his own leaves The black sheep of the family tree who's now breathing in green Not even knowing what it means I question everything n' everyone; Fluoride in the water got me sipping on the Evian Getting slept on like b**hes with their bevy on Could I hang with anyone when I turn the telly on? People questioning aggression & pain; But of course I'm moody, man it used to be my last name Putting the cro to propane, just hoping the rain'll turn to rays On the pavements I was raised just to pave a brighter way Now it's 4 am again n' I'm flexing this pen I haven't slept cos I haven't thought the right rhyme to write yet So f** the mic check; I might wreck the mic set Wrestling with the devils in Sutherland's head I be that bubonic plague; I'm bound to blow To epidemic waves spitting sickening flows Punch force alike Thor's hammer throw with one blow Crushing jaws to nose-bones through your domes past the Ozone This is what I was put on this Earth-to-do-since birth It's everything I'm worth, the only thing that's even worth the work It's a blessing & curse; until rest in a hearse I'll be stressing with the words n' digesting herbs f** that b**h, I don't need her sh** Bun a spliff and just forget she exists Sometimes I think if I was rich then I would be a drug-addict Panicking on Prozac just to run from past habits I'm past stoned; so stoned I'm in the past, though- My present ain't a gift like the Grinch was is in this mad dome Enclosed in my DNA's engravings on my gravestone It's set in stone, my fate's closed; I better face the microphone Never need friends; nowadays I count on a hand Cos in these ends you can't even trust your own Dads It's sad so many lad's have taught themselves to be a man Like Sutherland when my Ma' was working nights to get scran In a family tree prone to having a heart attacks; Having panic attacks on Prozac, pen to notepad I wrote that my hearts black as lungs from the blow-back On phone-pad's the triple 9 on-call like my dope, lad I know that; if I keep going the way I'm going, man- My toe-tag'll be in the morgue before I know that I hope that my act cleans itself but due to cold facts; I'll end up as an alcoholic junkie with no flat I don't call that! To me your nine to fives a fall-back There's no chance that no rap of mine'll make a dope track I hold that on Carter, Jay, Lace n' Cam in bold caps; If I'm not making a living of spitting then I'll swallow Jacks