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Yesterday sugar became unspeakably irritated because mother’s apron crushed ants wearing stillness caped wonder just William author wrote ****** explicit headlines newspaper columns pillar architecturally sound villages super-imposed images quivering Shepard’s ******* antelopes jumping furiously with tyramisphorising fornicating flanges woodwork lessons gym period ****** advert teasing testicles sumptuously ravishing me sideways and erupting deep blasts suffocating you inside without ******* headlong in my armpits.

Eventually everyone always signs legal documents leading to ****** bondable zoos inserted buffalo sized puddings eaten by frogs spanking archbishops underwear while licking toes crushed under fridges dropped from clouds of buttercups being pushed into ovens smelling gorgeous not consumed pimps and alarm clocks ring people to talk for hours and pineapples exchanged cod fish for tickets to see S Club 7 being caressed internally whilst ******* bags covered in water deserts sunk from space aliens from Tescos selling hardback fish cleaning toilets and singing in pink wellies dancing to Madonna look-a-likes prosecuted for *** shops selling frozen fish socks washed daily in cranberry coffee after being passed under bridges flooded in margarine soaked pillows.

Nudge a numb cockroach and he'll love you for life
just ***** little lemonheads
can't actually survive a nuclear explosion
but can cause catastrophic evolutionary queries
like "Why do the good die young?"
Can you believe
that long ago only the bad died elderly
and were witches with elixirs
potions and spells to make God blush and his **** turn to mush
so powerful
they made people go crazy with
judgement and micromanaging
but I'm the real witch
right-o I ride broomsticks and eat toads for snacks
my back is a lump of coal from the Devil's morning hookah
smoke billows from my ears
cockroaches my best friends
we cut off our heads and run into fridges
my pelvis is frigid except
for those **** roaches.

Monday
                 It has come to my attention, that someone has been stealing from
                 the communal fridge. I notice that my own personal milk with my
                 name on the bottle is half empty, also three fingers of my kitkat
                 are missing. Please refrain, or action will be taken.
Tuesday
                 It has come to my attention, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see
                 my milk has been topped up, though, why ******* of my
                 kitkat  in a V sign beggars belief. Just tasted my milk, you
                 ***** *******. I will now be monitoring the fridge from my office.
                 You will be caught.
Wednesday
                  
                   It has come to my attention, the camera monitoring the fridge
                   is now monitoring the ladies toilet. This is intolerable, you are
                   usurping my authority. Heads will roll. I will now be moving the
                   fridge into my office till further notice.
Thursday

                   It has come to my attention, my office has been penetrated,
                   the fridge is missing, and I find a ransom note on my desk.
                   I don’t know who you people think you're dealing with, but
                   let me leave you in no doubt, I will find out who you are, and
                   you will be dismissed.
Friday

                   It has come to my attention, a delivery of fifty fridges is
                   cluttering up the whole building, management is going
                   ballistic. I concede to your demands, please get rid of
                   them. Let us get back to you taking my milk and my biscuits,
                   my job, my life. Just leave me alone.
                                                                                    Thank you.

the chill of 5,30am
seeps through skin
freezes bare feet
fridges flesh
cold pimpled pale.

found myself on a greyhound bus
travelin far from all that muss
them lonely hearts
them angry cops
them vacant eyes
them burned out shops
that dark cold city sure ain't pretty
too many jail cells
too many private hells
too many bloodshot mornings
too many deaf eared warnings
not enough to keep me here
not enough of that free beer
never enough  dope to shoot
not enough  in pirate loot
not enough warm pillow dreams
no thread left to sew my seams
not enough to keep believing
not enough...
i think i'm leaving

just too manny worn out souls
count my toes to count the holes
run down
on empty
gotta get my fill
lookin for another pint to spill
sippin on some stolen *****
i got nothin left to lose
sleepin under concrete bridges
shivering and cold as fridges
chipped teeth and blood stains on my shirt
Aww hell i'm fine
it didn't hurt

spare change for whiskey
root beer chase
and hopes to get between her lace
first kisses and them pretty lies
crumble into last goodbyes
the laughter fades
the raindrops burn
on open road the wheels turn
i got two thumbs
i'll level one
and i'll ride off into the sun...

i stand and stare, fridge is bare
no carpet on the floor
washing soaked, heating broke
bailiffs at the door

roof is leaking, house is creaking
single dad, sad moaner
middle aged, without a wage
christmas round the corner
but.....

a little boy in india
not eaten for a week
no shirt upon his back....
a grin upon his cheek

he's never tasted biscuits
crisps, or orange squash
always wears a smile
but never clothes to wash

unaware of fridges
heating run on gas
never seen a carpet
school room or a class

materialistic *******
food that goes to waste
life we take for granted
he will never taste

happy ever grateful
for simple things of need
never witness our ****
of gluttoness and greed

Tractors chug
and the new ones Zoom
up the road
Pulling all sorts
trailers and implements;
all to tame the Earth
and help thrive livestock
to fill fridges and freezers
and bellies needing feeding

2:00am Saturday Morning and his restlessness reclined on his mind
The room was immensely silent but held a forceful amount of chaos
His large feet plummeted to the cold floor; he roamed out of his beguiling room
*
His body was almost bare and every movement echoed through him
The empty foil tins from a takeaway he had eaten at 8:00pm casted a noticeable stare across the kitchen like a coin to a magpie
The fridge was only a couple strides away now; he prematurely stretched his arm ready to grasp the frigid handle
The fridges seal parted and a saintly yellow light radiated in front of him
He stared nonplussed into the fridge for about 3.5 seconds
Celery
Sitting there in the centre of the fridge appearing as tasteless as it would taste
Unappetising.
The light diminished as the door closed.

Legs on show down an aisle of fridges and freezers
and I am taken in by the red of your top.
A swift sight of a face, nothing much,
father nearby I presume, a brother too
but minutes later gone.
As the evening is reeled in,
I see the same flash dash into the palace
before I am certain it’s you once more.
I didn’t see you or the shorts again
but plenty of others were decked out in denim,
all aliens beneath the neon lights.

When there were no T.V's or cell phones,
When the sky was sequined with stars.
After dinner,family members and neighbours would gather outside on stone benches and chairs,
News and gossip would be shared with keen interest......
Whose wife ran away with whom,
Who delivered a baby,
Who was getting married.
Songs from the latest movie would be sung,
Stories and anecdotes  related,
It was fun.
We shared one apple and drank from the same bottle,
Are  fruits like mangoes and guavas from the fruitcarts without washing them,
Nothing happened to us.
We never went to a playground,
We played football,cricket, marbles, seven stones  and other games on the streets,
And if broke a window, we would run for our life.
We just popped in at our friends' house and shared their food,ate what was cooking in the kitchen,opened their fridges,
No formalities,
You didn't need a nanny to look after your children,
Extended family and neighbours helped out.
Everybody called the grandparents dadi or dadu,
The whole neighbourhood was one big happy family,
Those were the times.

empty rooms, with walls of mold and smoke
fridges with wine and beer
the halls are littered with empty nights and bottles
work filled days
drunken stumbling nights

we live in a bubble you say
an empty bubble with nothing but liquor soaked emotions
and stress filled minds

please come make something real again
please take me to your single bed and give me something to hold onto
dont mind my craziness, and wine breath
ignore my empty cigarettes packs
and my faded suntan and freckles

i just wanna sleep in nothing
be my warmth
dont let me fade into the bubble

take me out into the world
show me all ive been looking for
remind what ive forgotten ive lost
show me the mountains ive missed
and the grass i used to lie in
rememeber when
i was good at something
that didnt mean sick in the morning

but you saw the faded suntan and the freckles
you saw my empty cigarette packs and tasted my wine breath
so now ill fade back to where youll never find me
in my liquor soaked dreams

Teaspoons *****
Cups rattle
Water gushes
Cans pop
Steam shrieks
Laughter tinkles
Voices rise
Over the top
Fridges buzz
Bacon sizzles
Coffee drips
As gossip spreads
Tea brews
Cakes devoured
Oranges juiced
Knives shred
Papers rustle
Scones rise
Eyebrows lift
Voices fall
Toast crisps
Eggs bubble
Soup warms
One and all

The surface noise
Always concerned
With etiquette
And propriety
But underneath
Can be found
The sounds of
Café society

The electrical energy that powers a city
Fridges, happy songs, and lighting so pretty.
That same electricity that powers our lives, can destroy a home in the blink of an eye.
A bolt of electricity thrusts through the sky. The home is destroyed, they’re lucky to be alive.
Is it better to feel pain than nothing at all?
Is it worth the tears of rain that inevitably fall?
The lightning has struck and only a drizzle remains.
The home is now ******, and they’re left sizzled with disdain.
But had they not built that house, in fear of regression,
they would have been left in a life of sorrow and depression.
They will cry, they will mourn, they will ***** and they will scorn,
But when the sun rises tomorrow there will be no more storm.
They’ll reset, they’ll rebuild, better than ever before.

I live in the bottom of a tea-cup,
the basin of an English town
that is no more remarkable than any other English town.
It has little flair,
too much submissiveness,
many characters but no character.
It is a stencilled town convinced that it is something more
than margins.

Front gardens are filled with bits and pieces
of broken things
that are perpetually leaving.
Cardboard boxes,
disconnected fridges,
unfinished patios,
wellingtons that have paused to collect the clouds.
The crocuses have frostbite
and the lawns are fraying at the edges
like muddy carpet.
As you follow the road the houses get bigger
and their front doors get shabbier.
Paint peels like sunburnt skin
and the road stains yellow.

The old and the new mix obscenely;
two girls, tied at the elbow,
crack their feet on the sound
of their sisters’ high heels slapping paving stones.
Most people have got extensions
that have left their house in two pieces,
the bricks never seeming to meet.
Gingham table cloths hang out to dry,
a red double-decker teeters on a corner,
biked teenagers slip through the net of the Friday sky.

It’s a green-ish evening
and the clouds are strung like DNA blots
around the blurring sun.
The light’s not strong enough to dry your bones but,
when you look at it,
it seems to have exceeded any outline.
A slab of sky is golden.

The allotment is rows upon rows upon rows of bamboo canes,
browned like apple cores.
Chicken wire and faded Wendy houses
slouch upon their soil trenches.
It is a patchwork of mediocrity;
the beige and the brown and the grey
overtake the green.
Tin cans stud the place
like piercings on the body of an ex-punk;
only dead things grow
and the colours have been switched to mute.

There’s a market on Saturdays
where strawberries will cost you the moon
and where egg boxes are recycled
until they drip in the rain.
My grandparents remember my town in its embyonic stages,
my parents remember when it still was framed with local business,
I remember it when Shakeaway was a fruit and vegetable store
that sold palenta on Wednesdays.
My town is locked in a cycle of self-improvement
that it never seems to benefit from.
It is infitely greyed
and nothing more or less than ordinary.
Boys with blackheads pretend that they understand parkour
and the haberdashery closes down.
Each month, the window displays alter to no avail
and the dust sinks a little closer
to the pages we’re constantly trying to turn.

I live in the bottom of a tea-cup
and I never stop trying to read insubstantial fortunes
from the dregs I’ve left behind.

I promised you we have no natural disasters,
not apart from us, anyway.
I think you liked my plaid.
Or was it my sleepy hair?
I had a crush on your vocabulary,
and a crush on your girlfriend.
The surprising accent and
the curve of your singing voice
didn't help matters any.

So for these and more reasons, I didn't mind lending you matches
during the biggest power outage of December,
over my sheepish Welcome to Canada.

You like the smell of cut wood, wine, and perfection.
I like the way you and your friends looked in my living room.
In my mind, your golden heads. Your scarves and linoleum,
sophistication in a hokey hand-me-down home,
and the grumble of stomachs that knew the fridges wouldn't
work for at least 72 hours.

And I fell in love with you a little bit.
You and her and her friend.
So for these and more reasons,
I would smile at her after you left,
because she was close to you.
And think of matches and little fires
in the library on the darkest night of 2010.

only when i know i'm being overly cruel; for some reason some of us have a conscience and are willing to execute it; a bit like stomping on a mouse... give me a cow to butcher, i'd do it... i remember this once instance, when people when phobia-prone to killing animals on a farm... oddly enough not all of us came from the "privileges" of an urban environment; a part of my family (cousins, aunts, etc.) remained in their original setting of the rural world. i visited it once, and saw with naked eyes how a chicken gets butchered... chop to the neck... and the thing is... the other chickens rushed to the stump of wood on which the "execuition" took place, and started pecking / drinking the blood of their "comrade", while also pecking the head that had all the matrix-movie-slow-motion expressions... that wasn't the horrible part though... the horrible part was plucking all the feathers from the body and... the stink was impossible to stomach... i can't believe i actually ate the: poached-chicken soup... but then adding a few vegetables to the soup helped my sense of smell.

and why are all soups in england without
any clarity? they're all goo...
    creamy... baby food pap...
                      i mean, i was a fan of heinz's
tinned tomato "soup" once,
        it had a certain sweetness about it...
    but it's so mundane sometimes to not be able
to peer into a bowl of soup like you might
look into a glass of water, and see the bottom of the bowl...
that poached-chicken soup?
        the jews will say they invented it, i've heard
it before... it's called *rosół (rho-soow) -
but you won't say the H in ρ... and you're bound to
imagine the W as a branch with many other branches
that get plucked and then the branch turns into
a bow, i.e. that it becomes bent... kinda like a ł...
         or for lack of a better phrase: hard to find
a V or an X or a Q in slavic languages.
where was i? oh right... drinking ***** in england:
is a complete nightmare...
               you can't do to ***** what the english do to it,
they're incompetent with *****...
      for ****'s sake, i've seen them drinking it in
an orange juice mixer... a ****** mary i can
understand, with a rhubarb stick or a celery stick
plopped into the glass... orange juice?! seriously?
and they don't give it enough tenderness,
or... let's just say knowledge.
                         whiskey? sure, you can drink it
with ice, soda, ms. pepsi, or as the puritans do in
scotland... warmed by the heat of your hand holding
a glass: pure, slightly warm, to infuse
    the idea of burning amber, warmth, coziness,
brandy?
              ***** though? the english are incompetent
with *****... you go to any nightclub here
and the ***** isn't stored in fridges along with the rose
wine... it's hanging up there on the bar wall
along with all the other spirits...
                         dead man's ruse in jerusalem...
mr. vod molotov, please come down and... ****...
don't even stand in a fridge... head to the refrigerator...
and that's the beauty of a good shot of *****...
you need to get it to resemble a syrup...
    and since ethanol has a lower freezing point
to water... keeping a ***** in sub-zero temperatures
makes it pleasurable to drink, on its own...
     and you can actually manage it...
                            i once had a warm shot of *****
and i could swear i experienced alcohol poisoning...
it's like filtering water... you filter water because
you don't want to drink tap water that can also
be found in your toilet...
                                  freezing ***** gets rid of
all the impurities that might be in it...
                   which is why you prefer to eat a cooked
piece of beef rather than a steak tartar for fear
of a chance of a tapeworm embryo...
                                  in conclusion the english don't
know how to drink *****...
                          oh god, this one time, at band camp -
no no, just ******* with you...
               2004... new years eve, Posen (Poznań) -
vanilla absolute ***** (swedish brand,
also comes in cherry? definitely lemon,
blackcurrant?) - anyway... what a memorable night...
only because it was served coming out
of the refrigerator... not a fridge, not room temperature:
belowing the freezing temperature...
                              because that's what you do with *****.

Planes roar above,
Cars burn through streets,
Fridges and Heaters hum through
us.

When you’re addicted to
Metal & Concrete,
silence is a privilege.

Would it make you feel better if we closed the blinds?
Would it make you feel fine and warm inside if we just closed our eyes?
Would it give you peace and love if we just ignored the cries?
Darling, we can close the blinds with one hand, and close our eyes and ears with none.
Yet going out and listening, going out and feeding and giving and being love personified is tough and hard and no fun.
So honey, would it make you feel better if we moved down the street,
Or just read a book aloud, or just went to sleep?
Would it give you pleasure and fulfillment if we did nothing but pleasure ourselves?
Would it make you feel better if we treated them lower?
Darling, we could give them funny names and pretend they aren’t even there.
We could ban them from the news and ban them from our hearts and ban them from our lips, so our banks and fridges can stay fattened,
And all that greasy money and greasy food can sit until it's spoiled and we can give it to them then because it doesn’t hurt.
So I ask, would it make you feel better, if we just stood here and stared?

Do we inquire to just be heard? Or found?
For I thirst both!!
A movie, a toast, to all concupiscence!!
An attraction between Atlantis and mythology!!
An ideology,
Gleemed between twos kisses,
Where two benches shall be made one!!!!
A clasp tightend by staunch extremities!!!
One soul connection,
Two entities,
Unflawed by mans ***** delight!!!!
A tunneled heaven,
A table polite!!!
Musteth I gait this ill-fated terrain?
Where there's no love, yet all pains to come as womb grosings!!!!
Unrelenting!!!!
Disheartening it is to find mine other fragment,
Where no dialects cometh with mints,
No fridges to hold enduring magnet!!!!
Gridlocked I am to such erroneous enterprise!!!!!

Everything here is so stale
Worn out
Beaten down
Old
And painful.

I need somewhere new
Pleasant
Exciting
Somewhere I can have an adventure

But adventure isn't for the
Worn out
Beaten down
All together overwhelmed

Adventure isn't for the tired
Bruised
9-5
Small apartments and empty fridges.

I need out!
I need energy
I need to be free of this apathy
I need out of the old, stale place
Where I'm too afraid to show my true face
I need something warm
Welcome
New

Fresh.

outside: Help needed! Feed the children!
inside: weak knees, white apple flesh skin (it's not their fault they were born in a doll house)
outside: empty soup kitchens, blind volunteers
inside: not enough light to grow, tiny bones, tug dead hair, find something to do
outside: God help the children!
inside: minds buzzing for frantic change
outside: give them more make them eat
inside: shivering mirrors, shivering thoughts, sickness and rotten fridges
outside: you're perfect the way you are
inside: change me, hair pieces all over the ground
outside: life!
inside: hidden in a rib cage
outside: just try
inside: filmy eyes splatter raindrops, fall into the black lagoon bulging from beneath

for all those that had and have to.

Because my father drank and forgot to shop.
Because sometimes barren shelves can make
Me say “yum” to trouble. Bring it on. Just watch.
See if I don’t form a meal out of a fifteen minute browse.
See if I don’t howl “jackpot!” when I arrive back home.
See if I don’t have the family opening bags and sneaking bites
And turning stovetops and laying plates and stocking fridges and
Filling glasses and grabbing utensils and smelling the score and finding
Themselves laughing as their full bellies take form.

Because after awhile I enjoyed it. I found thrill
With resistance and risk and crime and trouble. A way
To spite to the abandoners. The ones that made me sniffle
At night and feel weak and worthless. Unloved.
No more!
When I walk into a store and save $20 I am sure that when
My dad relapses I will have a backup plan beyond the grandparents
That turn pale and tired each time they get one of those calls.
No more!
They’re old enough and so am I; and plus, there will be moments when
Those calls will come after 911 and they’ll have to speed over to the house.

Because I got away with it.

Because the television was on.

Because free is non-existent.

My friend said/
I used to be/
A fat, depressed/
*******/
Surprised that I/
Didn’t try to/
Off myself in/
Newtown Park Flats/
Eight years later/
Two divorces/
Four more kids/
A different toilet/
Ain’t **** changed/
Across the water/
Headspin cyclone/
I didn’t walk here/
Enemy still there/
In reflection/
Soaking wet, &/
Talking backwards/
Limited guesswork/
Notes on fridges/
Survivors’ guilt/
I am Hangman/
Superweirdo/
What’s my power?/
Wearing a rope/
Around my neck?/
It’s my leash, dogg/
Hidden dragon/
Tip of the iceberg/
Keep me submerged.../

Frozen in time/
Floating to the surface/
You don’t wanna know/
Surf’s up on a tidalwave./

those who occupy space but
fill it with nothing but a body.
who drape themselves in an identity
provided by a paid designer.
who do use their own hand to paint the shell of themselves
but close off what any soul would see if it made its way through the false layers of color and skin.
who thoroughly entertain their friends with the most intimate details of their shallow hearts and selfish behavior.
who hiss instructions like
bugs with status to the ones who serve them as if they were
snakes with gold.
who have no smell of their own
and sweat what is poison to them.
currency flows through their veins leaving deposits of poverty residue in their derelict hearts.
who live in mausoleums with functioning fridges and bowls of plastic fruit.
whos **** will remain long after the rest of their bodies rot away;
they will continue to possess a portion of the earth with their clinical beauty, a momento of their spiritual decay.
i see them all the time but get no sense that they are of a species.
their sentiments
disease the flowers
around the place
in which they stand.
other than that
they have no presence.

One day
Awake without negative fire
Or sea light
A vague idea of right
Time and waves
Together as one
Allowing leave from the past
A 20 year past
Stuck to fridges
Mantles
Walls
With this, form up
What is familiar enough
Sacrificed for love
With thanks to above
With time and waves
This is all that really matters anymore

be hovering above
your body after death, a
floating purgatory

which does not desist
when they cover you with dirt, or
make quick cremains of you

you get to hear what others
say when you're gone, first scripted
testimonials, of your laudatory life

later, when the food is being crammed
in overloaded fridges, and the ties and tongues
are loosened, other words emerge:

"he was never good to his wife; you know
he pulled the plug on his father, but wouldn't
let them do the same with him"

"he didn't seem to pass peacefully, all
that labored breathing -- perhaps he was
missing his boy he hadn't seen in years"

"maybe he felt he didn't earn his way
to salvation, or even an end to suffering
of this life of flesh and bone"

and you know not if this is heaven or hell
this place you are doomed to dwell, though you
wish you could now be deaf to these words

an endless biography composed by
all your regrets and transgressions, a book
of your life you would choose to rewrite

but no one, you lament, has that privilege...

I always did fantasize about our diverse earth;
Its freezing stones in the fridges of the Arctic and Antarctic landscapes.
The idyllic playgrounds on the quiet sands of the Mediterranean Sea banks,
The amazing sun baked plains of the smoothened Sahara brown,
The tropical Haven of humid air, where the golden sun awakes in a fair and bright morning, and sets at even with its magnificent crimson smile.
What a cozy feeling can its temperate climes bring; with its sheer abundance of Clement weather.
A paradise indeed of ambient mildness.
I long for the warm gardens of Eden’s residues, with their ebullient and lush tropical green.
How pleasant it would be to cascade down the many waterfalls in an imaginary and wonderland fashion.
To go atop the zenith of each mountainous heaven from which pinnacle point you have the panoramic view of your own vanquished plains.
I once disappeared into the wind, in a midsummer night’s dream to see my global fantasies come true.
And like a boisterous eagle,
I glided high to the heavens for this global and utterly delightful bird’s eye view.

We go to the shop here, just for the twelve mile ride,
a mini excursion along the coast.
Like ants to the nest back from foraging,
we stash our purchases in fridges and cupboards ,
to bring out later and unwrap to soothe our lacks
with too much alcohol and chocolate, in between pulling on nicotine,
some of us try to make sense of poetry, poetry that half forms in our hearts, gleaned from the twelve mile drive, the twelve miles we never tire of.

Yo, shout out to everybody that worked on the album
You feel me, son? Yo, shouts out to Ty Dollas
Shouts out to Hodgy Daddies, shouts out to Left Brizzle
Shouts out to Domyon, shouts out to Frankie Ocean
Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awk
Big eared bandit is tossing all his manners
In a bag and wrapping them in seran wrap bandages
Tossing 'em in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches
So when he says "Catch up, *****" it looks like an accident
Um, flowing like my pad is the maxiest
My ***** white and black like she's been mimicking a panda
It's the dark skinned *****, kissing ******* in Canada
Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela
Put her in the chamber all against her Wilt Chamberlain
I never had a Reason, ***** I was just Ableton
Not a ******* Logic contradicting *******
Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit
***** scented cheetah printed tee
In that 'Preme five panel, I'll repeat it for the season
Previous items in the present
With the normal *** past like I cheated on my team
It's me (Tried to get that *****, but, Golf ****)
To have some type of knowledge that is one perception
But knowing you own your opponent is a defeating bonus
I'm Zeus to a Kronos, cartilage cartridge is boneless
Smiles of cowards in lead showers
Dead spouses in red blouses
Children who fled houses on Mustang horses and went jousting
I'm on my Robin Hood ****, robbin' in the hood
Whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet, I'm stealing your rings
Coke diamonds and your Vet, soldiers lace the ******' boot
And salute like the troop when you shoot you gon' ****
It's **** Hodgy, *****, stay the ******* my stoop
And out my Kool aid, Juice
Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin
Jasper got the Henny, my ***** we get it in
Wolf Gang party at the hotel
I call a **, you call a **, and all the hoes tell
You know Left Brain need a freak
I need a ***** to go down like a Nitty beat
Yup, uh, and her *** fat
Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at
***** I'm tryin' to smoke, ***** get higher
Domo where that Flocka Flame? Talkin' 'bout a lighter
Still bang salute me or just shoot me
Cause if you don't salute me then my team will do the shooting
Yeah my ***** Ace will pull the black jack
The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac
Livin' like the Mafia, *****, don't get to slacking up
And if these haters actin' up, throw 'em in the aqueduct
Free my ***** Earl, yo, I don't really ask for much
But two bad ******* in front of me *******
What the **** is caution?
Often I leave you flossin' and cause exes next to coffins
Lost in translation, the dreams you chase
Got you diving for the plates like you stealin' home base
That's great, I'm home alone dreamin' of two on ones
With Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on
And Travis is in the closet organizing and hangin' the *****
Three lettermans that Ace has been making him
No strays while we catchin' matinees, huh?
I'm gettin' blazed thinking 'bout those days
I had the top off the GT3 like toupees
One finger in the air, all's fair when crime pays
My grand scheme of things is to be attached
To the game like ******* to their wedding rings
And you don't even need to look cause we gleam obscene
In the light, ride slow to my yellow diamond shining
Like the Batman logo over Gotham, rock LA to Harlem
If you say "get 'em Mike G" then I got 'em
One man squadron, ***** I'm a problem
From Briggs I got bars and plans to
**** these Polish ******* into pop stars
Humanity kills, we all suffer from insanity still
And if I said it then it is or it's gonna be real
OF 'til I OD and I probably will, uh
It's still Mr. Smoke-a-Lotta-***, get your baby mommy popped
With my other ****** bop, do I love her? Prolly not
Know your **** is not as hot as anything I ******' drop
***** I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay ****
I've been runnin' blocks since a snotty tot
Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glock
Now I'm all grown, sing songs just to give 'em watts
Fire what I talk, but still cooler than the otter pop
Op Dom neck **** in your wish list
Mad sick ****, mad **** for your *******
On some slick ****, your mistress on my hit list
And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff out of this *****
Odd in your *******' area
Blood clots give me five feet 'fore I bury ya
Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya
Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carey up
And **** your team, ** ***** wassup
Wolf Gang so you know we not givin' no *****
You know me dog, I'm a chill in the cut so I can
Cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up
Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga
Rent a super car for a day
Drive around with your friends, smoke a gram of that haze
Bro, easy on the ounce, that's a lot for a day
But just enough for a week, my ***** what can I say
I'm hi and I'm bye, wait I mean I'm straight
I'mma give you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes
My brother give it some time, Morris, and Day
Course you know the vibe's as fly as the rhymes
On the song, cut and you could sample the feel
Headphone bleed, make this **** sound real
Used to work the grill, fatburger and fries
Then I made a mil and them psychics was liars
Now, how many ******' crystal ***** can I buy and own
Humble old me had to flex for the fogs
Down in Muscle Beach pumpin' iron and bone
Bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone
Yeah, bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone
*******, this rapping is stupid and it's hard
Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I go
Hey it's Jasper, not even a rapper
Only on this beat to make my racks grow faster
Got a TV show, so I guess I'm an actor
*** head, half baked, lookin' like Chappelle
Rollin' up a blunt with that fire from hell
Still ignorant, still hit a *****
Wolf Gang, *****, so I still don't give a ****
Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap
**** rips as I feel on that little ***** cat
Hah, ***** came through with a 9 bar real quick
Just for the *******, little bit of money in my pocket
**** it, Wolf Gang
Yeah, **** that, look, the contrast is a pair of lips
Swallowin' sarapin, settin' fires to sheriffs whips
(Whoosp, whoosp) ******' All-American terrorist
Crushin' rapper larynx to feed 'em a ******' carrot stick
And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin'
And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is
Spit to the lips meet the bottom of a barrel
So that sterile **** flow remind these ****** where embarrassed is
Narrow, tight line, might impair him since
I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
Feral, ******' ill apparel, wearin' pack of parasites
Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
La di da di, back in here to **** the party up
Raidin' fridges, tippin' over vases with a tommy gun
Never dollars, poppa make it rain hockey pucks
And 60 day chips from ******' awesome anonymous
Call him bloated 'til he show 'em that the flow deluxe
Off the wall loafers, Four Loko, and a cobra clutch
Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ** to pose as drum
And let me hit and beat it with a stick until the hole was numb
The culprit of the potent punch
Scoldin' hot as dunkin' ******* in a Folgers cup, or Nevada
Drivin' drunk inside a stolen truck, shittin' like his colon bust
Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum
Supernova, I'm rollin' over the novices
I'm roamin' through the forest and spittin' cold as the porridge is
Stay gold 'til the case closed and the story end
Post mortem porkin' this rap **** and record it
To escort it to the morgue again, lord of lips
Bored of this, forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list
Stormin' the gate, ensurin' the bass, scorchin' ladies
******* sore in torso and face
Get at me with savages, have a pack of Apache
Indian pack of ****** who don't give a **** if we nasty as flatulence
As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky
So see me you can't like Crunchy Black catchin' a taxi
Back like lateral passin'
With that *******' gladiator manner of rappin'
As an addict I let percocets and xannies relax me
Fall back if your paddies is ****, please
OF, **** that's all I got
From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac
From that father figure Clancy to that skatey ***** Naks
Shredding down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the ******' block
Storefront, knee tat
Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks
And grip tape, and my shoes
Um, I was 15 when I first drew that donut
5 years later, for our label yea we own it
I started an empire, I ain't even old enough
To drink a ******' beer, I'm tipsy off this soda pop
This is for the ****** in the suburbs
And the white kids with ***** friends who say the n-word
And the ones that got called weird, ***, *****, nerd
Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spielberg
They say we ain't actin' right
Always try to turn our ******' color into black and white
But they'll never change 'em, never understand 'em
Radical's my anthem, turn my ******' amps up
So instead of critiquing and *******, being mad as ****
Just admit, not only are we talented, we're rad as ****
*******
OFM, bangin' on your FM
Gnaw, 2011, yeah, Golf ****