Thursday, July 22, 2010

My Eyes Bleed.

Diabetic kids stare out windows of grey death, atop skylines of haze created by plastic silverware using cigarette smokers.
Eyes need drops, names don't. I never wanna be like you. I never fake the funk, I just prefer the junk.
I'm not as ill as a cancerous cyst but you still get the jist, decipher the wordplay, end up with a cryptic crossword clenched fist.
We can drop the car at the airport after we've done over the servo, no disguise, and be on a plane overseas sipping Jose Cuevo before they realise, what a trip, let me express my shit a little bit.
So you roll with phony friends turned feens, so what, I'll drop a globe on the carpet and watch 'em scarper, you lost the plot.
Cos when you hooked on the crystal, you done for,
You'll end up 50, buying a bead shop, on the foreshore.

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