0922 | WE DONT NEED NO WALKIE TALKIES

and the last shall be, first to the curb with the mad cow meat, face in the bars of a regular cell when he woke up high in collectible hell, boom town kid who was taught by the binge that a man who expire with the most shit win, that's warpy american nonsense penned by the rich, not a routine friend in a pinch, still not used to the stench, how it throws off otherwise lucid events, in the case the afraid observe i got a pro-keds box full of layman's terms, it goes hey, peace, pray for the plagued, major relief and capacious rains, but just cuz i don't want to war with you, it don't mean go warm up the barbecue, i'm like pardon you, sawed off limit, my high noon is a quick little minute, i don't wanna spend it sitting with a critic, who simply isn't going to ever really get it, this HQ is alive and alone, no driveway no sign of a home, no dial tone, no line for the phone, no world's tiniest violin song, and i might just lie to them all, lie in the morgue with a deep breath hiding and bored, fighting a smile, highly annoyed, when the timing is right i will rise and record, cal for the monster beats and blockhead got animal drums like he's doctor teeth, it goes red light green light 1 2 3, one large coffee, fuck you, peace.