Several beats that I'd like to see get into good hands. Please DM with the beat that you're interested in, or if you just like what you hear in general, DM me and we can chat about what sound you're looking for. 

Raising money for the mixing and mastering costs of my next album, which is fully complete. It's a flooded market for beats, so any listens, comments, DMs are greatly appreciated. 

SL

FUNDRAISER MIX VOL 1. TERRANCE AND PHILLIP EDITION

Bones Are Their Money

Fine Day/September 12th/Biological Ticking Timebomb

Lyrics: 
May your moustache grow like brushwood
Summon all his acumen to shun bad trust good, Using every pound of flesh to embrace the rust hood, satisfy the lust foot, pacify the motivation club foot, kick it! 
Flubadub chub dictating less of the arrangements but still insistent, Erections still making reservations of the wicked--a permanent parking space lends itself to less mischief.

     After the better part of double decades,
Adrift up in the hedge maze, and navigating from an Assay 
Tongue tied Def and blind to any sensei, lecture, essay, or Jeffe, livin’ the day no comprende 
  
living his best shame, man-child on the make 
    In the land where mayors sling hash and smoke base  
So save the Rogain; bout to get hairy as a spider leg, so please, join him for a smoke by the powder keg. 

One man’s entertainment, is another man’s therapy, 
At the break he breaks to leak and re-up on the kerosene 
applying moderation Sparingly, And just So we’re very clear, no guarantees he that won’t sell the parakeet.  (Pretty bird,)
The necromantic, Echo chamber of ramblings, add in a dash of candour, the answer's in the Meanderings.  
Amethyst disguised in the ravings of a madman--
Mining muscovite in the badlands--conducting brown notes from thousand man brass band In his escape from the rat race handstand tap-dance. Make haste, flap the shit out of these wax wings; bask in the kickback from brass taxes. 
He can’t pace himself,  
 can’t inflate himself,
In front of jaded mugs all too happy to Filache themselves, 
so he shapes the mud as Labour of love and hate into a urn for what remains of Masquerading.

Tape-to-tape, back sauce, Head fake, top cheese,   
Radiate a clock maker’s Soft handed moxie. 
Luminescent paint making Jaws go phossy 
and Remission brought to you by the anti-froth lobby 

Slack jawed yodeler Colder than frobisher bowling for pulitzers, pulling the cloak obscuring the podium of bowshittin soul fettered tree driven go getting fomo obsessed yoyos: 
What with our downs and ups..
      Weep a potent latex puss from cuts, 
      dis-tilled to something ill when he funnels the sludge.        
   Inhaled in dank dens, and injected in huts, Might aid running from ruts might get your page snuffed
    One of a kinder third eye blind drunk monk mustard tiger style of aperiodic tile.
Going off hope all enjoy the lettering;
Prep boat as if heading in to some better winds.

May Your Moustache Grow  (Tumbler 4)

Sculpted Back (Vegetables)

Knots (V3E3)

Art by Heather Roy.

Take it as it comes but adapt or die,
A flock of walking paradoxes trying to atomize, Where the black and white satisfies do or die appetites the waking life seems more complicated than advertised.

   Easier to fake it till your take is actualized, 
pack a bag walk the walk until the pack decides, Jerry rig a raft for a cherry sky and fraternize with every passerby till the disguise is rationalized,
Every Lash batted ratified,
Every crash landing no longer cannibalized.
 
That aside, to Shark or shirk, to bark or smirk, or shall we start this work, bird for bird, buddy,
 Paralysis of hypothalamus overcome by self-flatulating psychoanalysis 
Caught up in the grand canyon of grandeur,
Oblivious to the lion’s head on the lanyard,
Dining by gaslight pushing the graphite till raspite or glass pipe, well all right.
Just tryna get the facts right.
Dying to be made by something other than that shit from last night.

Lust like ingrown hairs plucked by guilt,
Guilt like guts that bust buttons on film, 
Film on the gluttonous gills puffin until, 
The till, 
Gets rummaged like attila to nil,

So what is real, I been asking that the whole nine
On cloud six, shapeshifting tryna hold time, 
dichotomize till the pigeon hole climb, or 
pimp the vertigo for the wobbly walk across a silver line

Slumber Logic

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