When Things get Real I let Black Betty Handle it

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Black Betty, RAM (I believe…)

Sorry, but I don’t get paid anymore to deal with shit getting real. Once upon a time I did, when cities where crumbling underneath themselves and armies rose up over food supplies, sure. I was the youngest of the (nearly) oldest generation awake and I wouldn’t dare antagonize the leader of leaders. I didn’t live this long to get beheaded for some goth freaks getting too wild in Costa Rica.

But because of this, I’m the one most bands remember and when things go down, come find me. No, not Otto who resides in the depths of Germany. Me. No, not Jorian who IS LITERALLY IN FREAKING EGYPT!

ME. And no one closer.

In the states. In the coast region. That’s fine. Completely. I just turn my music up and watch their mouths move.

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I have perfected this to a T.

Honestly it wouldn’t surprise me if my name was still on that granite slab under London. That’s where my people’s capital is and where a lot of history is held, underneath and hidden of course. Anyone allergic to the daytime can easily get to it and thus I theorize that my name is still being published to be a pillar of Justice of our society. I really need to get over there and check. I’m sick of others coming to me with their problems. I don’t even let my housemates do that.

Still, all and all, it’s a nice song. Nod to my dear Clair. He knows his music.