He's Music
Born on a Wednesday at one two eleven,
what a fine year, nineteen eighty seven.
Ears painted on to handsome framed face,
you cruise through this world at a lightening pace.
Bangs on your bass raise temparaChurz, tempo so natural all emotions are stirred
Such soft angel lashes, as hard as they come,
your rhythm is instinct, like the beat of your drum.
Singing sweet soaring no fret left undone,
I can only be talking ‘bout you my cool Son.
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