Cross the street no matter their light,
nobody’s stopping you with my will,
until you’re settled in a gutter ahead of a finish,
cartoon tire tracks spray them bones for birds.
We all are the same in that respect, except it ain’t really our decision,
control from your puny end ain’t nearly what comes next from theirs,
you can even try spitting on those angels and it may make them happier,
but what’s important is remaining truthful by challenging your honesty.
Garble for your hinged loudspeaker,
cool lemonade as your daily injection,
passing off their ad on to my offering instead,
addiction’s shakes with a dented cup in view.
I don’t care about others’ concern with your name or the way you look,
they are easily swayed although they still grunt with a mighty exterior,
simplified to the emotional touch from centuries in compounded training,
pretending along to be on fire with strength and solidarity of emancipation.
Never learned and I never needed to,
dismissed from school rich from fools,
can’t see the worth in copying them over me,
trade their vehicles for my cardboard boxes.
You send out the call in a whisper and that then blows these harsh waves,
carried by those army ants just rustled a few hours ago from your queen,
who only chipped her mandible with you both running across that field,
before finally noticing the awesome laces of doom crushing from above.
Sharwrong's Song 