Spry is the wrist that moistens the gist of a paramount point that everyone insists is more myth than marrow don’t go callow into the enlivened evening cause callous courage is rough enough to endure the splinters of times peevings and truths woven in the soft cotton of our sound booths
I’m a player in this game.
And there is never a bow, seen too many lives to understood now is the now and blessed to be here with you on Saturday morning writing a little poetry, fit for me, a king and slave to the written encrypting this on my grave,
Did you ever hear a story about me? There so good, from the dysfunction and dark to Super Bowl’s and a young Markey Mark, and the sad and weary pedophiles r the worst, took my innoncence so young it didn’t fucken hurt, bizerk that it works, but your mother wasn’t stranded, I love you Mrs Medas and stand with every child that was ever abandoned.
I’ve never strayed from a fight, highlight the ignorant soul that dares spark a rascist tone in a public dome, I will be that guy, and fists will fly, doing my part to keep idiots in line.
Stand with me, men and depart again from the boy you left at Santo’s gravesight on the living room floor, holding hands with your girls as pop walked out the door. I can take it. And no longer fake it, not even a little bit it.
SO PLEASE TAKE NOTICE, nail the notice in the center for all to see, it’s 2012, I’m brining back UNLV.
I C U fuck fake – stand tall for what you believe in and don’t tolerate anything less from the people around you. WARNING ; MY HONEST PHASE IS SET TO ROAR BACK.