The Black (RA)inbows' Edict

[the Draç]

Syrup like slow, a cake for the Pan.

Slowly but surely, you will become a fan.

Aries the Ram, Sam-I-AM.

Time to perform in front of the cam.

Butterfly knife, .45 on the hip.

At the tip of the tongue, like football, a free kick.

Wanting to plague, an all day event.

The Pale Horseman at your door, and now you're then sick.

Slither like creep, with alcohol that's cheap.

Time to upgrade, as we drink, sols we then reap.

Wanting to play for keeps, the Moon then illuminates.

Six feet underground, our enemy, that's their fate.

Wanting to create, light we take.

Wanting a piece, and the whole fuckin' cake.

Rap like sack, a Cowboy with a hat.

That's when the fans begin to then clap.