By Arcassin Burnham

So done with this algorithm ,of humans
beings and, their cruel intentions,
I pour a drink out ,for all the dead ones, that
won't have kids , or make it to 21,
I could make it here , or get my harmony in
a little town, that I could call home,
Trials and tributes , they follow me, in any
of these places or where ever I go alone,
These little kids that call themselves men,
Raised up off taxes and food stamp bends,
They grew up with homies , don't mean those
your friends,
Impressing them is more believable than
pretend,
They pick on you to expect a reaction.