Let's do a bunch of DMT in the coat check of
the Viper Room, go to the Hollywood Hills and
murder a bunch of people.
You've got your arrogance.
I've got my stretchy pants.
I bend over, chin folding into my shirt, sweep
up butts and a dead bird and shoo off the largest
group of face tattoos I have ever seen
(My God).
In loss of years,
in loss of space.
Years ago I travelled out West for no reason just because
everyone talked about wanting to and rode that shit
but even then I was still giving a fake name, doing
fake-ass shit, sucking shit, drinking shit and was
already making fiscal and responsible lists before
accepting the inevitable submit.

The melody is what hurt.
Like giving away thirteen dollars.
Sacks of rock salt and a putty spackler.
Poor advice.