Sunday, November 14, 2010

The Radical

Mortality doomed civilization of widowers stepchildren with a steady aim
Pass the flask,then ask yourself if you could defend yourself in pain
Because these preverbial bootstraps are tied to a celing fan
Cooling down the porch on a warm winter evening
Even crocodiles peer into your souls
But growing older gets old.
“Aim away,young man.”, a pack of riders appear.
Things aren’t the same in the 21st century,
no public executions,no tradeing livestock for ladies,girls,really. Sick how we cant change history.
Lately,I feel I haven’t gotten a taste for the way things are said to be.
Ive been thinking “millions aren’t enough for me!”
Then ive been seeing my brothers and sisters all over the streets/waiting.
I should be right there with em,holding a pistol,shooting my hand for buying some calogne/ lonely when vices are the only thing you have in the world.
Hords of dope peddlers,meddle in the business of making it my last night in town
But instead a lot of their bodies keep getting found.
I come home at night,and all eyes get tight to see if my lips might slip up right
But they might not have a choice anymore.
The cold summers coming on,and im numming all my senses again.
I think it’s the wind that carries me home.
Along with cannonballs I float threw walls,women & home after unrestable home
I think im desteaned to have a compus pointing north
Where ever I must go

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