Some are on their last breath, dyin’ to live
Others drown in a bottle, flirt with ending it all over a spliff
They call me many names, but you can’t claim I ain’t legit
A substance smitten nit-picking nitwit
Lyrical vomit written, I don’t spit
Prophet of a kid, scorchin’ bars so get a mitt
This noose more tightly knit than my family unit
Ain’t that some shit
And I can’t even tie one properly.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Tadeusz Bukowski.
Published on e-Stories.org on 02/18/2020.