rat-a-tat-tat, whisky and rum, you go for the gold; I go for his drum. nobody likes my music—O pity on me john, we come from the future we live on rum and coke this is Santa-anna, speaking from the abyss: trust me my darling, now give us a kiss - nobody lives on the sauce: you just make an entrance, and then the party ends—your youth ends; maybe you continue, even when it’s no longer any fun, to put down a period, to start a war you can win.
shine a light on me - I can see to the end, grammar medallion, won’t you read me in? You’re going to screw us from behind; beat us to a pulp. speaking, as i do, into the bulk. run on sentence, no cigarettes to smoke, and, if i did, i wouldn’t be able to breathe call it a panic attack to stave off the end; i have scarred lungs—they are sensitive
So tell me, two-fold, if you’ll dance with me;
Once upon a time, I was as cold as ice,
you do as they do, there, in misery:
I’m not here, however, to roll the dice:
Believe in God, and our weakness, ho-hum,
I’ll stick to coffee and my savior to boot
I know you don’t like me, but I’m not dumb;
I speak from the past, watch out or I’ll shoot
don’t carry a cross for that true love of mine
i write a little to ease my haywire mind,
thinking, as it does, that it’s doing fine
but you’ve got me, now, and I’m in a bind,
twenty years ahead of me, put you to shame
but you don’t exist—trop vindicitive,
like a bleary-eyed basket case, half tame,
half degenerate, and knows where I live