No need to be cooping it home. Got the stoop as my throne. Brick and concrete stricken on me, with a raunchy ho swollen. No Rome throne golden. Only beige with a mix of grey that's the closest, much of my motion's.
I got a fucking story to tell eh. They let the fire hydrants off to cool the block down. When we walk 'round. When the cops 'round. When our music plays.
New Ratking. Canal, canal. Stop so, so stop. . You best die my way. On the West side highway. Or get high my way. Hanging off the left side of a sky scrape-er-er.
Twa, twa, twa, twenty degrees outside, but toasty. Twenty degrees outside. But toasty in the tunnel. Another day, another dime. Another way to kill some time.
Swelled up and I am blue, purple from bruises. Just a few couple several rusty screws loose. No way in hell I'm letting you move thus. What you mugs might consider think say fuses.