i'd probably be an alcoholic
but there's never no money in my wallet
so i spend my time just trodding around
a true concrete walker
street art stalker
looking at the lines
and adding with my marker
wishing id find a girl
that i could really talk ta
who'd understand and respond
to my strange dreams
and even darker visions
though theres no malice
within these nine gates
just some incisions
still the days go by and
i just wait
for that tattooed angel
to drift from the fumes
i used to have wings
but all my plumes
were ripped right out
and the bones taken off
so now im cursed with
a pretty harsh cough
from to much inhaling
of smoke
"Man can you spare a dime"
"no, Sire, im broke"
