I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, no you don't, no,but I seen MS-13 spray paint, Check It too. Ain't no wrecking fools but I got robbed once for my ipod 2. Blue, in my black and white checkered vans. I was the man before then, cool, in a school uniform like "whats the plan?" Stan ain't said shit and I ain't said shit for a year after that,
fooled into not trusting no man. Introducing agent Rycroft aka undercover DC resident aka bowling with the president aka fuck you staring at me for? aka sit at the front of the bus. Four door, I ride shotgun, and by that I mean the seats that move up for wheelchairs.
I had a dream I was on the street I sat bit by a rabid dog and died quickly, or one time a man was chasing me asking me for smokes, I said no and ran home swiftly. That wasn't a dream. I know, I killed my whole family once though, or my whole family got killed. I then spilled blood, bludgeoning and skilled until I decided it was right, or woke up, blighted blood blood blood Burgundy tie, confused discipulus wondering why, pudgy and bludgeoning. That was a dream. I mean I felt safe in some ways. I coped as a game. The nave I sang in
cast the doubt away Geppetto with my falsetto wishing for a peace of mind and to get home before dark. Thought I was bound to stay, bound by chains I had found that day. Jose on that pedestal, don't wreck me, I'm gay.

I walk through the Market of the Capitol Hi- homie that shits wack. Yeah, but I have a tight pack, no crack, no gunshots, not much pack. Lots of drinking though, yeah, and slinking off into empty bedrooms.
Not much headroom in these basements but the bass in the room
had us all wearing shades now cool, even winter. poetic justice?
Maybe not. We sneak into pools or onto rooftops. Even while afraid of being caught by the blue, the prude in the group, I'm content with my own thoughts, off the clock. Tallest boy on the block, no longer afraid of the world no longer surprised by the in between the thighs of girls. Wondering too much about the in between the thighs of girls. Aka husband of Hayden Pannetiere, aka husband of Jeniffer Lawrence, aka husband of Emma Watson aka underwear commercial orgies.
Sorry, I put my Hanes up in the air, lame, I know, but better than bloody and maimed, at least in my membrane. I aim yes, at you head yes. That was at Avery's house playing halo, fuck you talking about? Well, somethings stay the same, havens stay havens, heaven above the peach tree in Jeffrey's backyard. They're hard as rocks when unripe.
we hit them with bats and now smoke in the night. But it's a step up actually, from a dull gate of listless to a new stance of wishful thinking that, unlike the raven said could hopefully go on forevermore.