Hey there, Maurice
This man could take the **** outta pistola
Tall as Yosemite
and twice as wild

Then here's Greer,
Man's... a little queer.
Drinks carrot juice with carbonated soda
Says its good for joints and inertia.

Don't quite know what that means,
But here--You don't gotta know a thing.

We smack the back of railroad tracks
Zoom down the 8 to the 102
And great! Who can we appreciate?

Pretty ladies and dancing lights
red eyes our fill of delight

These guys walk with a gun to their stride
claim to humane:
use hollow-point.

Infused with botanicals
Drinking gin
Beefeater talking heads
Drowning sins

You laugh at them now?
Bunch of rowdy gamblers
Playing dice with life
Spinning their chambers
Faster than you probably could.

there they are!
On Downey street
The place where the hackers and potheads meet

They deal in prose and green cloth!
words and promises and fear of light,

Man, these guys are outta my mind!

And I hither to and fro their
Business stand and hated flair

Told me the world would set me free
That perhaps we'd all get there eventually

But in that mean time
Hollow-points hang their claim
Grasp for cloth and modem dollar
Shackled by a diamond collar

Dreaming of fancy little rocks
A yacht of metal, a house of blocks

I dream of simple things
Of green and flowers and Poppy seeds
Wherein I find that happy guy
and revel in warm alibi

Maurice and Greer
Me and her
She and I,
We'll be there

And there is here,
There I despair
And watch awake with placid eyes

The drain choked with misplaced hair