I watch my neighbor’s son play with his shotgun in the street.
I think I’ll blaze all day and marvel at the mass of food I eat.
It’s strange; I’m skinny when I’m standing but I’m Buddha when I sit,
and if I’m truly so enlightened why’d I waste your time on it

as I look back at countless crossroads and the middle where I stay,
right up the beaten path to boredom where the fakest fucks get laid
by the faux-finest finds It’s been that way and god damn you, how you stay,
with every scummy, crummy hour of the scummy, crummy day.