And these shaking houses are quickly filling up,
within our little divided room spreading wider,
now constantly overflowing well beyond all sides,
check that your stamp remains concealed and dry.
Bring down the time until our most recent highs,
finally coming against my inferior beats atop brains,
hopping on the pendulum swing for its nasty rotation,
taking me to our falling bridge again to stay busy.
Harder work across these many calloused hands,
as we spend even less of their plummeting freedom,
while neither one of us receives what is required,
but in our waning screen we’re feeling always larger.
Funky and lower as these brand new levels submerge,
greasing underneath in the stark bares of darkness,
thrown near this contagious fever convoluting its flavor,
crawling above the moist ground dimming your soul.
Thunder a bass to pile drive this lost sleepy block,
fire your red pipes burning navels into erratic phones,
no crack lining the wet boards of my paid off jeep,
yet I still continually keep certain secrets from us both.
Jazz is going to wreck these senseless streets in my pocket,
ain’t interested in explaining the short rules here anymore,
tracking your sorry body to feed my flowers if you don’t follow,
blood must not matter to me once I’ve had a good mouthful.
Sharwrong's Song 