Poem over song, but you get it. Let me know what you all think.

One Twenty Alabama Street (Unfinished Basements)
It’s part of some community housing project
down, south end, one twenty something
Alabama Street. Bad area.
Fine friends.
The house looks to be two stories,
three to count the basement.
(I’ve never got to read the attic.)
The front room looks lived in to leastly say.
There is a bong and plenty of stains,
an xbox and plenty of smells. They linger, I do not.
Walk past through a pantry, through a door
with a stolen street sign hanging above.
The wooden oak steps are soft and weak
pulling an enticement down while
chipped in dented by things I’m not quite sure.
And there is paint, buckets blue red,
shelved on the wall waving
bye as you go further and fu
I always have to tilt my head some way
and squat
just to fit through the framed way
to the always unfinished space, perpetually
assaulting cigarette smoke towards nasal base sense,
whoring florescent light, and
echoing thumps from above like an unaware deity
never prayed to, shouted at.
Notice, there’s always a couch and there’s always a nineteen
69 oh lympic white Fender Telecaster leaning upagainst
a Marshall Amplifyer, 12x12, swaddled in
Some asshole of a mythic past spray painted the
word “wank”, black, on a white ceiling
tile right above where I usually sit.
Bottles of beer and bottles of whiskey and bottles
of things assorted are here
and there,
but most typically found
litteredly occupying the space places of dusty corners.
They’re just like someone I’d like to say like me. Not full.
Not empty. Just
half. There for now.
Hanging out in unfinished basements for the forseeable future.
"Tuning... who the f*** needs tuning?!"
Last edited by DaDude450 at Feb 14, 2015,