In the tintype crisis of my quarter life,
in the beer laden days that I spent back home,
how something stirred how something shown. With the lipstick stint tilt taciturn, you were a hot mess then and I guess you're still gonna weeze some poems on the way back home.
Where's the kid with the crash?
Where's my contract at?
Where's my construct cash?
Where's the kid with the crash?
Whatcha gonna say
to the kids in the fray,
in a powerful way,
to the enemy of day?