Master of the ocean, my closet’s the aquatic center
Feisty firearm, pistol with a violent temper
Mature palette, crab meat in the guacamole
Beggars at the bottom like to say the top is lonely
Keep my music raw just like my blue points
Each week I’m banging out new joints
It’s real dick, bottles in ice baths
Bitches with nice calves
Whole chrome toaster we might blast
MEYHEM LAUREN “Grown Man Pallets”
Now the old folks will remember
On that dark and dismal day
How their hearts were choked with pride
As their children marched away
Now the glory is all gone
They are left alone
And there won’t be many coming home
No, there won’t be many coming home
Oh, there won’t be many
Maybe five out of twenty
But there won’t be many coming home
ROY ORBISON
Step by step, heart to heart, left right left
We all fall down, like toy soldiers
Bit by bit, torn apart
We never win but the battle wages on for toy soldiers
“MARITIKA”
Do you ever use slang to communicate?
Today I feel like writing one sentence.
Skimming through the paperwork of your track record, you’ve placed zero. In other words, worthless and defective dear, you’re better regarded as non-existent. How did you get here? It’s clear you have lost your mere way. Quick, swallow your pride, you dick and take this map as your guide. Hold on tight, climb back up that selfish, selfless, umbilical cord, hide.
