In the booth, it's the Brown Recluse. Danger close like ground troops with angled scopes. The hounds are loose to endanger folks. Like amps and volts, it's no joke. My chamber smokes from close range aimed at upright antelope. In the booth, there's no antedote for these laced rounds with bass sounds. These venemous lyrics will have you face down. I embrace pounds of nouns and a surge of verbs like a sniper with a ballistic scourge; calculating specific words with odd characteristics like God's linguistics for the herd. In the booth, things occur and you are key witnesses to spectacular vernacular tablatured for deliciousness. Vicious is my visage if you want to mean mug me. Don't forget who this is in the booth. The supreme - ugly. Steer clean from me. Like I got 8 eyes and legs - a thing green and fuzzy. An alien, nonepiscopalian prevailing in teaching, reaching out to my fellow Hebrew Israliens. In the booth, I gets down and loose. Devils, I'm fading them in the cranium with prayer songs and loops. I'm in the zone. Minds are blown what I spit from the dome, having no use for pen, pad or a microphone. If I was in Trinidad, Michael's home. Still the psycho's on after 53 cycles gone. I'm up in here like ribosomes. In the booth. In the booth. Expelled bullets from a rifle roam. sir