"lumberjack" poems
I got sick of shaving
Every day
So I started growing a beard
For a while, it was technically stubble
But now it would make William T. Riker proud
Or at least smile and nod in approval
At the effort
I bought a beard trimmer at Walgreens
And I trimmed that *****
Made it nice and even
But it itches a lot
So I have to use dandruff shampoo on it when I can
I get compliments on it
From my mom and my brother
Whose beard should belong to a Canadian lumberjack
(Not my mom, my brother)
I love this beard
But I still get the urge to shave it completely
And return to baby-face
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
*I stopped by for a cigarette and to hear a story
He always told the tale of one eyed molly
She lost her eye
In a fight with a dog
The moral of the story was
Never trust something
Just because it may look harmless,
Even act harmless
But this day he told me another tale
The one of old Lumberjack Dale*
He was large like an ogre
Chopped too many trees to know of
Was stupid according to my uncle
This gave me quite a chuckle
He left off, on a normal morning
Hiked up the mountain
To where the clear dirt’s mourning
Held his axe and began to swing
The trees didn't have a prayer
He thought he was king
One fell down
He yelled "TIMBER"
Another smacked the ground
He Yelled "TIMBER"
Then another
and
Another
Birds were scattering
Squirrels were flying
The sounds were of a madman grunting through fire
"TIMBER"
The fifth hit the ground
The lumberjack ogre
Had to sit down
He swung one too many times, on this here day
The mountain swung back with a black bear, ok?
Protecting her cubs she wrestled the big man
Teeth in his arm and his axe in his hand
He squinted his eyes and flung the weapon
Missing the giant bear standing about 6' 11"
The mountain whispered to the lumberjack
"Leave and never come back"
He had ****** his pants and ran for the shack
"TIMBER"
The old black bear followed
Protecting her land
And the ones she adored
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
Sung to the tune of The Lumberjack Song by Monty Python. Back-up Mounties optional.
I never wanted to be Sandra Dee!
I... I wanted to be...
A LESBIAN!
(piano vamp)
Leaping from bush to bush! As they float down the mighty rivers of
Finger and Thumbia!
With my best girl by my side!
The Blond!
The Brunette!
The Giant Snookie!
The Natural Red!
The Little Spinning Skinnamarink!
We'd sing! Sing! Sing!
Oh, I'm a lesbian, and I'm okay,
I like to broadcast that I'm gay.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
I see straight girls, they're not like me,
But I think that can change.
If they'd just let me kiss them.
Their lives I'd re-arrange.
Mounties: She sees straight girls, they're not like her,
But she thinks that can change.
If they'd just let her kiss them.
Their lives she'd re-arrange.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
I cut down guys, I wish and hope,
That others would join in.
I wish straight women would think,
that *** with men was sin.
Mounties: She cuts down guys, she wishes and hopes,
That others would join in.
She wishes straight women would think,
that *** with men was sin.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
Oh I'm a lesbian and I'm OKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK K!
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
The veins in my heart,
rooted down to my stomach,
and from these roots began to grow a tree,
and on its branches caterpillars did roam
right there in my stomach,
they made their home.
yet I was alone.
Enter the lumberjack.
The caterpillars cocooned,
ready to begin the transformation
from girl to woman, oh, the sensation!
Time ticked on,
the lumberjack and I,
with that little spark in our eye,
from the tree, grew a garden, into woods
our love resounding above the forest canopy
the feral instincts, the cinders, the shade
until finally the Sun no longer shone
so the wall of qualms had to go,
in the form of trees,
one by one.
chopped.
Yet.
the wildfires had sparked
and the cocoons were now butterflies
and the forest we grew together was ablaze
what he didn't chop, my cinders singed,
ash by ash life was ceasing to be,
and then from the woods,
were we forced to flee.
and the butterflies flew free
the blossoms,
the trees,
burned
but the butterflies flew free,
in my stomach,
they are free
so now a bit of our dead forest lives in me.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
She walks the woods
Stays the night
Everyday at her Grandma's house
He knows the path
Walks with her
Silently he stalks her
"It's not me, it's the wolf"
She swears to her Granma's ghost
"He dug my skin up for treasures"
Found the bones of a pretty young girl
Hiding behind her bright blonde curls
Shed her skin on the side of the road
Picked up her coat and put on a show
"I will go to Grandma's home
And eat her heart out like a wounded soul"
She uses the last of her dying breath
To call out to the lumberjack
"He went all the way to my Grandma's cottage
He wears a disguise, my great red cape and hoody
Don't
Mistake him for another hooligan
He's the big bad wolf and he'd eat you in an instant"
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Better to be a live dog
than a dead lion.
Better to be a rollin' log
than a lumberjack cryin'.
Better to be a drunkin' fool
than a junkie's spoon.
Better to be a happy camper
than a hurtin' unit.
Better to be a fresh pamper
than full of ****
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC
Firm hands
Visage, chiselled by gods
I pray upon the temple
Intertwined fingers
Sinful embrace
I have longed a touch for Mars
So far, yet he saw the wood,
The hill,
The Temple.
The Mars enraged!
Raging howl of a lone canine
Digging of what the burried desire has for him
Digging, digging
Dig!
The Lumberjack fervently saws the hills
O God! Visage with a burning desire!
Not a tune of emotion compares to what this broken vision has seen
Not a tune of reality passes him.
Unconcious by the dew,
Concious by the sun
Ending the sin of a forbidden bind.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC
Better to be a live dog
than a dead lion.
Better to be a rollin' log
than a lumberjack cryin'.
Better to be a drunken fool
than a junkie's spoon.
Better to be a happy camper
than a hurtin' unit.
Better to be a fresh pamper
than full of ****
©2000
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
Her Father's old wool jacket,
from Johnson Mills,
in creamy white,
dark forest green,
golden amber,
in a lovely patchwork,
A soft dark winter tuke on her head,
that dark green in the background,
with rusty speckles on her cheeks,
Wet snow falls silent,
the sky is a crisp Winter blue,
the air is cold and clear,
& intoxicatingly clean,
As she breathes life in and out,
then,
looking down at her black Sorel boots
and her worn black denim jeans,
a nice old holey wool sweater,
and a maul,
A **** lumberjack?
Maybe...
Dressed to hack the wood,
the plumber thinks so,
he stops by,
a friend of hers,
sorta,
Huh?
Not invited,
but no one is around here,
we all do it,
so he helps too,
Hey I'll make lunch,
harmless flirting,
I suppose,
Because,
wood warms you 3 times they say,
Once to chop it,
two to stack it RIGHT,
three to bring it in & burn it,
But if you count the starting of the,
cantankerous chainsaw & the guy,
helping you,
And you hafta arrange & rearrange, everything,
cleaning the flue and chimney,
I'd say a few more than that,
& don't ferget to pay the man,
the cantankerous one,
Yeah he got lunch too,
and about them ashes,
could be pretty hot,
take 'em out regular,
that stove cranking too,
OUCH,
She ends up gets burned,
a few times each year,
Taday,
she's on step too,
as she picks up the heavy maul,
not to heavy for this gal,
all the way back,
watch yourself,
As a neighbor winches,
a woman chopping wood?
Yup.
That's right,
a way of life,
for her,
always has been,
poised and ready,
swing and smack,
if you hit it right,
you hear a crack,
Just like a baseball bat,
hitting a homer,
Big pieces,
are made more manageable,
when you don't try to control the force,
when you let the sharpened maul,
Do all the work,
for you.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
How do I get a carving out of a tree?
The smug shape of your G+E
outlines with a stupid, misshaped heart
etched into the evergreen.
You ruined my favorite tree
with five words.
A sentence I knew you would inevitably say
at some point of our lives together.
I really wanted to doubt myself for once,
and be proved wrong in the right way.
But you just had to keep me incorrect.
I call the local lumberjack and ask him,
"Cut down the tree as soon as possible."
I think that's how you get a carving out of a tree.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour.
why is poetry such a ***** of coding
daily activity...
who needs poetry if the everyday is intact?
atheism didn’t **** god...
it merely killed the logic of myth....
atheism is far worse than mythology...
it just regurgitates facts
to make you submit to them
without the necessary philosophical awe of
finding them interesting...
poetry isn’t dead... it’s a *****
which is worse than death where i come from...
there’s ezra with his fountain comparison:
‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it -
you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think
that’s called cubism in france.’
did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis
for the bomb sarcasm?
cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented
after sarcasam...
i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal -
there are too many stages in the differences of women,
i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going...
it’s like this thing that’s happening right now...
christian nations censor words... like **** cultish **** of the brothel...
and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk,
not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham...
one party censors words for excess *****
saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling,
we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’
sounds about right...
the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words,
that’s doubly censoring,
censor ***** words get more dirt out of it...
we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for
the knobs!’
problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling /
punctuation / arithmetic -
that’s what i don’t get,
the ratio of the two languages...
all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation...
but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE
is so much more...
is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out?
in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc.
but in linguistics you have this permament reminder:
SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG.
well... ****** me timbers...
i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
It's like sparring with a lumberjack
a tell tale sign you're lost
A party trick , a baseball bat
and loving what you've got
a sparrow rests- an open chest
a gunshot wound for hire
tempted to forget that love
will force you through the fire
thirty nine and feeling fine
and hating what you have
kisses in the moonlight
and ignoring how it stabs
open eyes of baby blue
have been lying all this time
dreaming dreams sustained by you
it still feels like a crime.
Headlights hollow open vast
and scream a shallow tune
baby birds they fly too fast
and are taken by the moon.
Pacing blankets made of smiles
and fairies in her hair
name tags and red ceiling tiles
dying, trying not to stare.
She's beautiful as sunshine
and sweet as summer heat
and standing by the roadside
she sells her rotten meat.
There's plenty love in all the world
for sirens of her kind
and your body's steady pull of heat
tempts her to leave us all behind
we're hanging from a telephone pole
at the end of steady stream
and seeing glass is on the floor
cutting up our dreams
This plane is falling into bits
for the rich ones to enjoy
i wonder when they'll figure out
that earth is not a toy.
porky's in the dining hall
playing Rhapsody and Blue
on a washboard and a bathroom stall
I'm entering on cue.
You can scream and yell and call me names
Curse words aren't that bad
My life is one big mess of loud
you're not supposed to make me mad.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:23 AM UTC
What is this?
A jacket
But something so simple can mean so much
It can hold me together when i get mad
Make someone look like a lumberjack
Though how could I rely on a lumberjack?
A jacket?
I can’t
I know this
None the less
They mean so much to me
The tough exteriors
Soft insides
All in all
I believe a lumberjack saved me today
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
I am the Lumberjack, strong and sway,
Out and about to work a manly day.
"Will you swing your mighty ax?" less asked, more sung,
And I said "Boy, my axe already been swung".
"Oh sweet Jesus, where are we hiding the body?!"
"I'll make it into a cabin, that's a Lumberjack's hobby"
It takes skill and ingenuity to rank with Lumberjacks,
"Well good for you, that's thinking with your ax."
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Taken by my hand,
warped and aged with time,
rings and rings of life, ingrained beneath my skin,
you hold me with ease,
and, I unravel with gravity, falling apart.
I bend and lean with the wind,
a slight breeze from you,
is enough to shake me from the ground,
to the sky,
and everything is naked,
and everything is the truth,
and i stand here, before you,
as you hold an axe in your hands.
Ready to fell me,
and take me apart.
My roots are old,
my heart is protected with years of warped timber,
my heart is protected as peach pit,
my heart is protected with poison ivy.
Yet in the spring i blossom,
In the summer i shine bright as the very sun,
And in the autumn i renew myself,
ready to ride the winter's harsh code.
You take me within your grasp,
I am a cold wind,
I am a summers breeze;
I am the very essence of life within you,
within me.
As you come to me, and take me,
And take me apart,
I am ready to go,
I am ready to be burnt by the fire,
and become the earth again.
So come at me,
but be warned I stand tall,
and built strong,
but beneath the outer layers,
I am truly a phenomenal piece of work,
given from the universe,
to you.
Bring your axe,
Bring your rough hands,
Bring your words.
I am rejuvenated by you.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
A misplaced Oxford Comma
Lead to perilous trauma
She drifted into an Oggsford Coma
Then turned into an awful aroma
The Ceremony held in 1980
Resurrected in 1 A.D
In the lumbering town of Hudson's Bay
Majorie chose to stay
Never feeling so free
She sat within a tree
Enjoying all she could see
The girl decided never to flee
Established in 1995
This dream came Alive
A tree home called heaven
Would stand until 1997
Slim used to be a Jackline Skinner
Lumberjack was more of a winner
Quickly forgot all about Walden Pond
Long before a new light dawned
"The wind that blows
Is all that anybody knows"
Even goes for pros
Or vacant minded 'hoes'
Just patiently listen to those
Who know where a **** goes
Don't make needless foes
Leave that for all the 'pros'
Slim stood uttering horrible slurs
At the request of a woman in expensive furs
Majorie stood on bended knee
Pleading for them to leave her tree
As she reached the bottom of the ladder
Silence was breached by a sudden clatter
All the rats began to scatter
Knowing exactly what was the matter
The lumberjack had missed his mark
Added slightly too much ark
Caused the Oak to prematurely tumble
And his body to instantly crumble
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
Hey, I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader there's only one pelt I'm interested in....
I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled Global warming has taken all the snow away....
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, i do know Partel, Kareem, Xi Chein and Steve
and they're really really nice.
I have a Prime Minister who is ******** not a president.
I speak English and a little French, not American though we like to mock southern accents...
And I pronounce it 'aboot, not about...
I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack along with with motorhead and misfits patches...
I believe in peace keeping, not policing unless you count the G20...
diversity, not assimilation, unless it's the borg...
and that the ****** is a truly proud and noble animal and a bald one is truely a wonder to behold...
A toque is a hat that douchbags wear all year round, a chesterfield is a couch that my dunken friends sleep on,
and it is pronounced 'zed' not 'zee', 'zed' unless its Zebra because Zedbra sounds stupid!!!
Canada is the second largest landmass that can be pilfered by multinational conglomerates!
The first nation of hockey!
and the best part of North America... except vegas!
My name is Josh!!
And I am Canadian!!!
EH?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
The scene was chaos almost like black friday at El Wallmarto.
people being pushed around by gringo's who didnt
even own a pair of spandex tights.
Or even know the glory of winning a no holds barred naked lumberjack
with a ***** splintter match.
The people needed a hero.
they screamed for the legends return please poppi
save us from the ordinary.
My amigo's were persecuted and i sat helpless traped across the boader do to a bogus lack of green card.
I must have left it in my other tights.
but once again like a old man on crystal **** and ****** the champion has returned to claim his crown.
And to shake his groove thing all over Hello once again.
With the strength of a small well shaved bear.
And the eye's of a low flying seagull I shall drop some splatters
of wisdom apon my fellow amigos.
Chips and salsa for everyone .
no longer heartbroken from my hellcat seniorita Drew
yes her bite marks i wear proudly in places I need to tan.
Let the little gringos sing like pretty little birdies
and senoiritas run through the fields like in thoose not
so fresh comercials.
Go tell amigos everywhere pour the cervesa
For El ******** Rides again.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
surrounding us: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
we’re beaming to a planet’s surface. now listen:
i know about inverse tachyon beams
i know about coded klingon screams
i know about going to warp factor eight
i know about redshirts' survival rate.
(no. chance.)
i’m beaming down with the main crew
to the surface of minerva II
we've got a malfunctioning interstellar transceiver which is distressing-- dysgraphing? dismantling…
…i don't know.
scotty said it was defective.
so we’re on this planet,
standing on one side of a thick forest packed with monster janeks,
starfleet says we need to fix this thing yesterday, and we’re in a panic—
and **** it, mccoy is a doctor, not a lumberjack,
and kirk says we should just burn through the middle with phasers,
and spock says we must preserve respect for all life forms no matter the situation.
now please remember kirk’s the captain.
that means he runs this show
but kirk always listens to spock,
so
we spend two days walking through the forest.
surrounding us: a billion trees
in a place where a strange disease is rare as feathers in a flock
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
halfway through this dark-lit trip
things go wrong (obviously)
and an alien with shellac for skin captures the captain.
said alien grabs a vine, ascends into the canopy of the trees,
and for one glorious moment
i believe kirk’s the dead guy in this episode, not me!
but spock, in his calm and logical vulcan voice,
orders us to exercise any necessary force to recover the captain.
translation: **** EVERYTHING. JUST GET KIRK BACK.
we reach the janek village.
being a good redshirt, i rush in, phaser blasting, ready to complete the heroic rescue of our captain—
and get killed instantly.
as i was dying, i heard the sound of thousands of janeks dying beside me
saw spock help kirk off the ground
and the last words I heard were theirs:
“captain, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”
“nah, spock, i’m fine—”
“mr. scott. the captain is hurt. beam us aboard immediately.”
one’s arm over the other’s shoulders,
they vanished.
surrounding them: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive—
but the prime directive
was never the real objective.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Home again.
I hold the door, and sigh. Holding my axe in one hand,
Orange, white, and red plaid shirt. Chin covered in stubble.
A warm fire inside. My sweetheart reading by the hearth.
A glance up. Her light blue eyes, so inviting.
Her smile.
I enter.
And rest.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Went to visit grandparents, decided I never want to be old
I have trouble keeping up as it is:
Technology is too fast paced
Phones are too small (and who needs one when they’re seven?)
Movies have too many explosions
All my music is from at least twenty years ago
While I’m planning my eternal youth I forget I take up space
I feel four hard smacks on the rear
Apparently I was blocking an elderly woman’s wheels
“Sorry for the love tap, you were in the way”
I wasn’t sure how to feel
A bit violated perhaps
It might have been, well, kind of nice
If she didn’t predate Christ
For lunch we sat with a kind couple
Marjorie and Phil
She wore all brown, with a necklace of whittled wooden giraffes
He was dressed like a lumberjack, pants mid-torso, flood-ready
We talked about a few things…
Mahler symphonies, Latin, obscure mountain villages
Both of them seemed perfectly content
You know, old age doesn’t seem so bad
As long as you have someone to share it with
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 7:50 AM UTC
Alright all you pigeon chests
Came the sound of thunder from the open door
As Big Bad Bart replaced the space
Giant mountain man of lore
Making his way into the bar
Sweeping Nancy boys out of his way
Stepping up to the the jukebox
Kicking it till some good ole country boy music played
This mountain man has made it his goal
To grab hold and unsissify
Any Wimpy Wally's
That happen to catch his manly eye
He started off his conquest
Out in the great North wood
First stop The Red Eye Back Door Saloon
Need I explain the name to you
He went in with his moral barrels a blazing
But there wasn't much he could do
Village people the only band on the jukebox
Y.M.C.A. being the only tune
He didn't let that little nitch stop him
Or slow him down by any means
Giving America back to the menly men
And not the mousey men with their girly dreams
Till the day that Bart locked eyes with Stanly
In that San Francisco flower bar
Those two haven't left each others side
Going through life now arm and arm
They spend their time skipping through fields of pansies
Giggling freely hand in hand
The way Bart now feels this was meant to be
Mia Mono, Man to Man
Bart's lumberjack buddies can't believe it
And don't know what to think of their friend
Although they all secretly admit
He does look good in those Hot Pink Hot Pants
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Planet earth
Was my place of birth
I need worth?
Money fortune and fame
Man i couldnt picture this
Without makin' a name
I wanted to be the black Picasso
With the picture perfect flow
So ya know
The microphone fiend
Aint went no where
And All my spectators n haters
Had to stop n stare
Listenin' to the bass thumpin'
Music n mic is so loud
Movin' the crowd
With my aesthetic poetry
Ricochetin' minds with my lyrical
Content
Once the trigger hits the bars get
More ruthless
Strikin' furious
makin' emcees toothless
Leave em with a strong lisp
Check the total Eclipse
Its temporary darkness mark this
Day and age im the new jack
So im turnin' the page
Backward bringin' real hip hop back
Yo! ,im finna cut deep as a lumberjack
And yea im black
So get ready to attack
Butll be back
For more ******** delivery
NONE could shake thee
Original master of the craft
Send the army n still they couldnt penetrate me
The black rambo of the industry
I had to take and make
My own moves show to you n prove
To ya that im the best at this
Two decades later n hip hops gone
But now im resurrected
The flow is re-connected
Back to nineteen eighty six
Now watch me rough up the mix
Dont look any further this is a stick up
Or hold up just fold up
Cuz ya at a dead end
Dont pretend that you couldn't bend
Your way out of a jam session
Go to the **** for a quick blessin' ya stressin'
Got ya nerves shook from my verbs
Ya mind couldnt take it
So death couldnt fake it
now i know as hit up ya funeral
Payin' my dues to the fallen ones
That tried to intervene between
The jewelry the cars and my life
complex scene
Enticin' green
Cuz of the way i drop them fools
Turnin' mule
On the mic
Cuz im paid in fullllllllllllllll!!!!!
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC