I can walk
this world,
tall or short,
figure one or figure eight,
black or white
has long as my word is on everyone's lips,
has long has i top the gossip list.
Fame,
name
all the same.
Money,
folly
all making me naughty.
Pleasure,
leisure
all in my ATM treasure.
Screams,
dreams
all over the TV screens.
I vanish
and smear my ego with a gold polish.
Taking a break, i call it.
I could snap my fingers in an empty room
and in an instant it becomes a party room.
I walk
through the storm,
cloth the sun,
re-decorate the night sky.
I'm in the world
i'm breathing
and i'm famous.
What is the point in not bragging?
When my style isnt manual.
What is wrong with being sick in the head,
when ranking makes you un-stable:
most expensive car,
most craziest style,
most funkiest hair,
most hottest chick,
most coziest house,
most expensive jewelleries,
most socially active,
most drunkest driver,
most party crasher,
most grammy receiver...
It never stops
till your hand drops
and suddenly the light leaves your eyes
and your heart takes to retirement.
The flesh
forgets to carry with it
all it had acquired.
The Grave shuts the stink.
