Hello Grandma; yes it's me; I sit here all alone, your little Willie all grown up; a dad, kids all his own, the things you told me as a child ring loud; I hear it all, on this day it's to you dear lady that my spirit calls.
I'm not quite where I wanna be in my life at this age, when tryna make a living from the written price of page, the Lupus has me going through a diff'rent kinda pain, like tryna find the happy rhythms from a sky that rains.
I know you're proud of me regardless of the status quo, there're little things I picked up that you felt I had to know, that nice guy's dead and buried Grandma; he just had to go, my heart sometimes gets cold as if it beats with blasts of snow.
The times we spent together though too short they've grown with me, I feel I must say sorry that your Willie's smokin' weed, I use it to relax a bit and get my brain to chill, that's no excuse but as you know this living game is real.
I try and walk the narrow path that'll someday get me home, to God and all the glories so befitting of the throne, I keep it real with you; there's just no other way to be, Muhammad Ali Ave but you and I know Waverly.
These words I hope assure you that it's all gon be OK, I'll fight before I let things get the best of me; no way, Victoria McKie, my grandma; rest in paradise, my spirit calls to you and it's the best I have in life.
Rest In Paradise Mrs. Victoria McKie 8/29/26 - 1/5/85 ©2015 The Cunning Linguist