poke me hun, give me shades
give me the very courage
to be disgraced, 'Tis the norms of all
the sons of Benny won' pay any homage
to the Ace of the Spades, unaware
how passified their own soul is
the f-word is a notice for you
given as a promise by my hood
the one and only, all so lonely
profoundly bleeding wounds
the youth is not to crinkle up
any muscle that is torn by a fool
rather they honorably get crippled
and have a self-righteous randez-vous
with honor, and pride,
and sighs
just as moon's eyes were watchin'
as the dignified boy was rippin out his stitches.

he was fine,
beyond it too, he's away from the lies at last
having the last laugh, never again to meet his past
along the road he watched
as the path to his grave
dug by his wrath is covered by roses
he won't be bothered by any humane,
updated downers, the steps walk to
infinite slumber makes him hate the very word
"Yonkers"
boredom resists, so he just insists on soly fall of the knowledge
of pain, and lights of the cigarette drain
on his torn apart shoulder
he's never again to be called on
as a "coward"