You can tell by my tires that not everybody who's has driven with me is still alive
Also, that I like my drinks neat, bottled and in the bus stop
Also, that we're drowning in precinct paper, department store floor plans and applications to the moon
And we can change the color of our snot from gifted to heart attack and tell you about ashes but where all these angels come from smelling like the cigarette that fells
And whys the man on the same side of these headlights freezing up, if got nothing to say at my funeral I'll speak on your behalf
Heroin in my smile, mountain n***as flat land robbery among some things on my mind the last store running and name the shit after life Friday to the filter, I'm a talk tale on earth
But here's to the angel that never appeared to America in the night of dog paddle in the batch of hangovers looking for a home you know a lot when you live this long
It's my (...?) and offensive speed hold a pair of rambling dice
Got unique cameras from young souls that say shut up about our city
Here (...?) to crash over a post, my (...?)
The streets teeth them to pieces and there's reservoir art of the face of stragglers and say bad news back home and say we gotta grow up on his behalf
Stumble back to a car full of last standing truth is still but still liquor missed the street you should be proud of me
I'm a mural man almost organized from everyone of my (?) that wake up on last (...?) on morning if it was worth it
I'm three decades homie, the reservoir art is all I ever see
You know I'm two thousand miles from my first Friday night you know I really survived
Maybe I wrote my first poem for no reason man
California is cold