There is really nothing in these cigarettes,
I can’t already find from a decent partner,
hanging nearly any city we’ve been through,
where talk definitely ain’t very slapdash,
and the sicker extras will certainly break you.
Us strangers wither over their intricate network,
just passing your freight between concrete islands,
drowning one rim only to empty another parched,
merely stacked as practically our full civilization,
teeth to conquer vast worlds by toggling switches.
Holding a spectral monetary balance in each district,
we decide the lengthy course of these tumid rockets,
executing various annoying clogs in sprawling arteries,
saddled with a severely fluctuating codependency,
unruly arranging this country-wide agrarian range war.
Race your fiery bed to burn the center rings of tar seas,
while temporary company pumps and sucks your desert,
later to simply resupply at a sleepy bar or honky tonk,
knocking a variety of heads back for energy and release,
eventually fueling up beyond required to scramble freeways.
Bring me a creamy box of pink cake and slice a thin piece,
first to gorge my hungry face then plant a throbbing fork in,
drifters like play names after the signs blur across your belly,
checking out what’s also shaking around that passion tube,
settled under churning waves as the latest notch of my compass.
Sharwrong's Song 