Placeholder: But it's not the mood to hear The tales of limousines and pails Of money they'll make like a pro I be like, "Yo black, just play me the tape" But at the show the time to spare I just make But the songs created in they shacks But it's not the mood to hear The tales of limousines and pails Of money they'll make like a pro I be like, "Yo black, just play me the tape" But at the show the time to spare I just make But the songs created in they shacks

@generalpha

Prompt

But it's not the mood to hear The tales of limousines and pails Of money they'll make like a pro I be like, "Yo black, just play me the tape" But at the show the time to spare I just make But the songs created in they shacks

statue, doubles, twins, entangled fingers, Worst Quality, ugly, ugly face, watermarks, undetailed, unrealistic, double limbs, worst hands, worst body, Disfigured, double, twin, dialog, book, multiple fingers, deformed, deformity, ugliness, poorly drawn face, extra_limb, extra limbs, bad hands, wrong hands, poorly drawn hands, messy drawing, cropped head, bad anatomy, lowres, extra digit, fewer digit, worst quality, low quality, jpeg artifacts, watermark, missing fingers, cropped, poorly drawn

9 months ago

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Model

SSD-1B

Guidance Scale

7

Dimensions

1024 × 1024

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The only one who could ever reach me Was the son of a preacher man The only boy who could ever teach me Was the son of a preacher man Yes, he was, he was, ooh, Lord knows, he was (yes, he was) How well I remember The look that was in his eyes
Klaatu barada nikto
Can I kick it? (Yes, you can!) Well, I'm gone (go on then!) Can I kick it? To my tribe that flows in layers Right now, Phife is a poem sayer At times, I'm a studio conveyor Mr. Dinkins, would you please be my mayor? You'll be doing us a really big favor Boy this track really has a lot of flavor
Color picture in a Theater in Paris: Biographie, photographie et citations de Arthur Rimbaud. Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud est un poète français
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The jukebox in the dimly lit bar crackled to life with a familiar tune, the sultry melody weaving its way through the smoke-filled room. A lone figure sat at the corner booth, bathed in the dim glow of the neon lights, lost in the haunting lyrics that filled the air. With a cigarette dangling lazily from their lips, the figure tapped their fingers rhythmically on the table, the words of the song resonating with a sense of longing and desire. As the music swirled around them, memories of past lov
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riding a train
But it's not the mood to hear The tales of limousines and pails Of money they'll make like a pro I be like, "Yo black, just play me the tape" But at the show the time to spare I just make But the songs created in they shacks
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