10 months ago

The lyrics are all mine.
The image was generated using Leonardo.ai.
The voice and music were generated using Suno.com.

Find my entire book of rap here:
https://www.amazon.com.au/Sales-Pitch-Matthew-Vandenberg/dp/1685830749

Here are the original posts, from 2016:
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/17s3BZntoL/

#LeonardoAI
#Suno
#SalesPitch
#BookOfRap
#SuitcaseStore
#Travel
#Obsession
#Rap
#Lyrics
#AlbumDrop
#LGBTQI

COUNT

They say it's thought that counts/
And I can't count the times I didn't think to tell her it was her I was thinking about/
That's why it's not me but thought that counts/
Bullets from Kashmir run through my head, like points, and try to be women and running things instead/
Push a pen like it's a pendulum. There's time left yet for someone not yet there/
Female heirs of defeated men are needed like airspace for them/
Is there space for rent?/
Do I get paid or laid in giving you my space?, and with some change/
But coming together isn't always for the best, in clashing, while mates get displaced on both sides of a fence, which was upturned, so, already sharp, too-narrow platforms were turned on their head/
When in Delhi, horns sound like they might if one pistol-whipped sirens/
If only they highlighted deafening silence
one can find like wildfires tearing up streets like wild drivers/
No one says a word about the plight of Dalits they decline to sight as Dalits sing their sighs like they're in choirs, while peeps in Delhi just let sleeping dogs lie like they're renting cribs for one-nighters/
They're out of sight, out of mind, while people mind sights but not people, like they're out of their minds/
Where's a list of the reasons for the grave extent to which some deny particular people rights to fair lives?, like those of those who are fair/
There's a freak storm of a chance of a seemingly wet beat, but any sets are like Bollywood's; only the contents of a wet dream minus the sex scenes, rather than 'ready' and 'go'. There are just uncontroversial set scenes/
Throw a set piece through a fuckin' glass ceiling like it's the last time you're dealing with rejection/
I got a fast feeling Indian men need redirecting/
Seeds of change needn't be threatening, but well meaning, so deal with needing 'em; soil in your hands so it's like your fingers are being them; them growing like stems like they're spent like owners of legs in bed, like bedspreads are them. Shake 'em before they're read like a newspaper; red when covered in menstrual blood. So, you'll see the need for spares; papers not covering only what's seemingly something's mainstream/
Ha ha. Say cheese, coz your breath's so ras malai/
I like the depth of your mouth, so can I ostensibly milk your embrace?/
Keep it coming like we're equal re spitting/
We can be space since your breath's like stars; extraordinary gases, direct from afar, as exotic as fuck, and getting me hard/
Your morning breath's getting me so, so I'm up and undressed, with my heart hardly unaddressed, and beating hard/
I repeat that it's beating hard/
I don't even gotta be this hard, coz I can be more romantic than a sweet cheesy piece of Bollywooden naan when I spin yarns, but I spit, in rapping, harder than if I spit when my mouth's full of paan, but when I rap I make the ground look like a field of flowers that are Dutch/
Touch my bunch/
I've got an Indian field of vision that's hot to the touch/