Pack a bowl of weed, yo.
Pack it up for me.
Pack it up for Forty Frames, it’s our density.
Carolina Playas with hella fucking cheese.
Get a peep of it when you get a peep of deez…
Kick it on the mic bitch,
Kick it on the ‘net.
One kick from 40PF will break your neck Chet.
Got to check the roster to see who’s up on deck.
Guaranteed, yo, to make you fucking sweat.
Three, five, all seven when we rhyme.
Like Buddha so sublime, we’ll elevate your mind.
Primed Design, the best you’ll ever find.
It’ll get your mind right,
like you was puffing on some kine.
And you know this, point poignant like a forgotten kiss
Lingering and visceral
This art is a transcendental flow
Like Cyrano de Bargerac, got lines that you lack
Pump up the track, deliver rhyme with a rap attack
all my homies are allied and they got my back
Even distances luna to sol, no toll to uphold
Coal into diamond and we like Midas turning dust into gold
It’s foretold, we the Psychic Frames and we multiply forty fold
Picking up shots, we hot
Always aiming to break the mold
Showered in the blood of the ghost of the king
clothes drying on the clothes line now here the ring of the church bell DING
corpses’ buzzing in a business of flies they were the cousins,
brothers, uncles, and aunts who breathed in their last breath.
their skins melted off their bone, “Death To The Queen” posters flown
now hanging in tatters from brown telephone poles
Vitreous humor jelly spread across the bellies
of the bodies been dragged for miles. Get ready
for that last gust of wind to steadily blast the flames forward
and melt down the town an unending horror.
Let’s hope the smoke chokes the throat of the ghost
of the king.
Let’s drink, let’s sing, let’s set fire to this whole fucking thing.
there’s no telling what else we’ve come to bring.
I ain’t a bad person, that’s just how y’all make me feel.
You be pressing the wrong buttons and you wind up getting killed.
Hang up the mic, tie the cord around my neck, kick the stool and watch my feet kind of jiggle around for a bit.
Not cool?, I’m sorry. I’ll stay on topic of this “thug shit”.
This one’s for the fans and for the mother fuckers who love it:
“Holla back now, beeya beeya, pussy, titties, pussy, bitch.”
Cut that shit up, use it for a club banger remix, I’m leaving.
released December 1, 2017
Features: Scurvy D, Forrest Jameson, Wyatt Furtherton, Anthony Jackson
Produced by: Forrest Jameson
Mixed by: Anthony Jackson