1900
1
I.T.S. hard violence to think about,
Yet, the attempt is down,
Like a corner allowing the streets to connect to desire,
Those who can vale as others get higher,
Knowing in the future she is smoking the Bulls..t,
Desperate kings having a part in how they lick,
How can I trust someone who is so comfortable to get sick,
Knowing it too, in different worlds it’s a trick,
Not married, not living together, becomes an unchecked, insulting, flawed hole,
Foul is an adjustment I have to behold,
The elation of gratifying something U can recover,
Lashing out love as 2 get over,
One understanding the other has way,
Muddled voices enterprise how it is played,
Foul, soft and wet the corner you’ll go around,
An error of how long will it take to really predict out,
Driving the ball straight in the load,
Only to pick up the field U know,
And what happens when an eagle turns into a birdie,
Mo’ money, Mo’ problems to turn late into early,
As a leader, your side is the only place U recognize,
But that’s just a high mentality to another player who has a different ride,
As the sun comes back, after fear in the douse,
U can’t put up, what they know was burnt out,
Upon return, restoration allows for the scent,
And in its chance, foul takes presidence.
