The smoke,
That crowd of fog..
Its biting like a fucking dog
Whats all that crap,
About health and dope
It brings you down a slope?
So fucking what?
Why not?
Why shouldn’t I fuck my throat?
What keeps the point?
That fucking joint…
I live today,
Tomorrow is a question…
I can get swallowed by depression,
And sit and moan,
About a broken fucking bone…
And end up jumping of a cliff…
Instead, I’d rather blaze a juicy spliff.
And when the time will come,
I will sit down or run,
Who knows what’s up,
What’s down…
No living soul,
So I postpone,
The answer to the living question in our heads…
So don’t bet black, bet reds…
And when the thought of point of life comes up,
You shut that motherfucker up….
And…skin the fuck up.
3:55 8.12.05
The smoke
© Copyright: Амирарт, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106111401799
Свидетельство о публикации №106111401799
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