If you let the bastards get you down,
you deserve to be down.
It's that simple.
While the mad howl
into the void
of restless summer nights,
bad motherfuckers
sip cool drinks
in confident silence.
Bad motherfuckers
laugh when others weep,
feast when others hunger,
they fuck long and deep
the angels others crave.
Bad motherfuckers die
far more often,
worn from the continual fight,
broken by the drama
of never-ending
women.
In rebirth,
bad motherfuckers learn
to wring out every last drop
of a whiskey flawed life.
Then and only then
do blood red skies,
that musky scent of wet cunt,
or these typed words
have any real meaning
or significance.