What do you have of mine, that I cannot take - a smile, a growl, a half-eaten sandwich with sad milky tastes? O the meals, you've eaten in my Camry on a beating mugged summer. Sour lemons, misconstrued carrots, uncomfortable plums - oh my peaches, and slipping undercover, covertly reaching for a compliment - back-handed, red-handed, now fingers crossed and arms too. No ring finger in sight, too good for a pinky swear. Mixtapes and Toronto opioid pamphlets - if I die in a Camry then I deserved it. Who the **** wants to die in a camry. Continue humming your incessant rap, I'll up turn my Winehouse knowing my 2000's were glorified. Burger King oiled bags musking the air. Sunday's are meant to be spent on the Oakville waters with hairs tied, iced coffee's, and wet lips.