brilliance ciaran man :)loving it . thief on the beat killing it as per

Im getting tired of this long division, talking with a touch of wisdon,
fire into politician chicks until I fuck the system, 
lucky chicken crossed the road by hoff an inch a truck had missed-him,
stunned and grinnin', sorta like a bad-joke, worth a listen. 
Your burd can birth a kid and nurture it with stuff its given,
even if your in two minds about it like a tough decision,
but ive had enough of this, am bumpin every word i've writtin,
kiddin , but if ye'v nothing to stand for ye shoulda stuck to sittin. 
If yer tired of this cancer-ridden land we live in plan a bit, 
demand to hiv a plan to make the planet different.
Or ye could sack it give-in, patch the single-handed mission,
catch a glimpse of madness as ye dance within the acid-trippin.
Pass the spliff, advance a bit, get back ty chillin,
laugh it aff and drap the daft demands of manufacturism 
cause yer styles dead like Maggie Thatcher is and am a tad better than yer average kid
at managing to mask a rhythm. 
A thought of quittin, nah a'l just go with it. Rubbered-fucked poet with another rough flow to spit,
Out-of-luck, blown it, but about to shout over, step round it, stop moaning, speak now and get noticed quick.
I lost the written, found it in ma sober head, put it back together but surrounded it with open-ends.
Now I've got a script-unfinished and I won't pretend it is, go with it till its wrote again. 
So what's what?
Shoulda hit the soft spot,
Coulda been there sooner, he was lookin for a lost-plot.
Never found it, there was fewer than his pops-thought.
Would'a kicked around if he just knew enough to shot-lots.
But hes got crops, grew em in his maw's-loft,
when the cops knocked, troubles brewin' in the crock-pot,
now hes fuckin fumin' like a hot-box, stupid cause he got caught,
and the nights ruined like your cock-blocked.
But who's who? Runnin from the screw crew, 
stumpled in the rush and now hes muddied up his new shoes, boo-hoo, 
fuckit but these cunts are gonna doo you, put you in the cuffs and hit and hurt ye till your too-bruised.   
So you choose, give up now, or push through, be a trooper and resume up-out of pursuit,
used a route to get ye oot, fuck bow-ing down and boost with the loot because ye do-know-how,
That's how ye do. 
A thought of quittin, nah a'l just go with it. Rubbered-fucked poet with another rough flow to spit,
Out-of-luck, blown it, but about to shout over, step round it, stop moaning, speak now and get noticed quick.
I lost the written, found it in ma sober head, put it back together but surrounded it with open-ends.
Now I've got a script-unfinished and I won't pretend it is, go with it till its wrote again. 
Tired of the double gins, flying from a couple spliffs, chillin with ma chick, she's sitting higher than Repunzal wis. 
Am on another script, writing for the fun of it, love to spit, son a settin' fire to these other kids.
I've wondered if I tried to come to fuckin grips with life would I survive or pay the price for all the stuff I've did?,
but if I died it wouldn't be suffice to cover shit, rubbered prick, tick-list somthin' like a tonne of bricks-weight,
the states-bad, sad-faced happy kid, band-aid plastered on ma fan-page rapper spit, bland taste, back-stage pass, 
mates chappin spliffs, dafty. Hands up-off ma pad mate, sacrilege.
Fuck the averageness that half these battle-actors writ, don't play with slaggin-matches ciz ye might end up in bandages.
And a have a list of things I'd rather tackle, which a mastely base on acts that I actually see as challenges.
I thought of quittin, nah av got another plan. Rubbered-fucked poet but I'm stoating with the upper-hand.
Am in luck, know it cause I focused on ma goals and can, show for it. Moan ya prick I hope ye try ty stoap is man.
I lost ma head and found it when I smoked again, wrote an end to all of this balony then a broke ma pen.
Now av got ma shit all finished and a don't intend to quit, so am rippin up the whole event.
A thought of quittin, nah a'l just go with it. Rubbered-fucked poet with another rough flow to spit,
Out-of-luck, blown it, but about to shout over, step round it, stop moaning, speak now and get noticed quick.
I lost the written, found it in ma sober head, put it back together but surrounded it with open-ends.
Now I've got a script-unfinished and I won't pretend it is, go with it till its wrote again.  

Go With It(Prod. Sound Thief)

RA!NY-DAZE OUT NOW @ http://ciaranmac.bandcamp.com

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