with respect to your hair man
play with it, been living large
so you ain't got time to cut it
put it in a ponytail that puts mine to shame

it's a little weird talking about your hair
seagulls make a birds nest on it
it's a hair song, sing songs along the cold air
picasso paint it well, redoing the blue three hundred times

police pull ya over because of it
sometimes ya skin color makes it knappy
like the way it settles on my blue jeans
when you rest your head on my lappy

Have you ever stared at a flame
as she dances in a fireplace?
So chaotic, careless, and untame,
but her hips sway with pure grace?

Do you feel her raw powerful heat
filling the small room around you
as her rhythm syncs to your heartbeat
and your eyes glaze over from the view?

Watch her until she roars and grows
destroying what lay in her path
before she quietly dims and slows
leaving only ashes in the aftermath.

Each flicker and each spark
kiss inside the smoke filled brick.
She illuminates what hides in the dark
as she travels from stick to stick.

She can cauterize and sterilize
and she can even mend things.
Or she can light up your eyes
by burning palaces built for kings.