I dream of the day, when I get to do the drugs.
My body riddled, in shades and haze from all the ******* in my blue veins.
The floor is my Haven that's in which I may stay.
Past the morning to today.
When I was ten, I went to the pen.
The bars where made of steel, but I rather pop a pill for its thrills.
Instead of the reels of a damping feel.
I'll take my **** for its cold chills.
After the skin sores have Mapped my whole appeal.
Know, I can see the reality in this new deal.
Twenty to thirty years for cooking up my own thrills.
And I walk in my ten by two space.
Now searching the walls for a dusty old pill.