Condor, Condor, Condor (Whats in the Condor?)
So much blues, you can see the ocean on his face. Drowning but supernova calm, spirit , gallimaufry soul in Tartarean trenches shovellin' . Chronos, for Chronos, seconds in the sol, minutes in the solstice , solar flare, vandablack egg punctured, earl in the grave, Ls whisper . Expire the ass ( in the blues) before the ocean drains out. You in a race, the ins will be eaten. Inn at ten, inns mouth in the quaint bed, rent fishy. Man In Blue drunk tank pink with the antique craft, violent shell fins on the prow, on King Kong's brow. Shipwrecked, naufrague for the comin' age. Age old quaint bed, quaking, 'bout to break free, those fiend faces in the cracks, vague . Whey (pale bluish) in the face (dimming), phasmophobic, each head a sang-de-boeuf on Man in Blue's brain. They scream close, creases on his skin, they not kin, they don't bark, all dogma .
Fuck a dog ma, that's my fuckin' dogma. Found my dawg, ma.