FOUR HORSEMEN ft. Bead

I grew up down the corner from Satan's Orchard. Foreign tourists, a porous world

I have no problem donning a crown of thorns. Mock views, tears and blood pour

Oh lord, being pulled around by mysterious forces. People don't understand my serious courses

Eating up profit, it's sweet like chocolate and to each their own

I'm suited up like Al Capone, I'll go toe to toe

Scriptures like Xeno, birds crowing but I can't see the trees grow

Foaming at the mouth in public restrooms. It's truly a shame what I see my own people do

Is a perfect system even achievable? Patterns lasting millenniums

The only difference is a bigger footprint spinning me nonsense

Finally finding solace, a very fine polish, no tarnish