A bird, we are now that we smoked the DMT, we see as other life so much appealing.

Flapping our wings we see a city, of damp wet in the early fifty's.
A scene below, is what we behold, and see a man and a white afro.
He was writing on the walls with red, blue, neon green, then a blue flicker came into view.

Now, what is it you think you're doing dripping graffiti from your clothes.

Drips of graffiti drop from your pants in a drizzled wet city.
Blue pants heavy in cold stares repeat this way ago walked.
It has not my stain that space of empty garbage the street is ours.
Where's all the rows once filled in with cars.

Sir, I'm not sure if your ego is up to par.
Its seems it is never near always at a far.
When's the last times you've drank in a bar.