| |
|
Bumped into this kid I knew: he often would walk strange, so I ignored the blood on his laces so this cat could save face. The dunks and the gaze stayed in an off-grey haze, and the lump in his pocket talked of the ox that he clutched safe.
So I saluted him there, waiting for the A, trapped on the empty platform without the option to escape. Gave him the standard - "Yo, what up man, how you layin'?" - and the hypnotized reply was no surprise:
"I maintain."
"Yeah we all do, that's the standardized refrain, but on some really real, man - good to see you - really - what the dealy deal?"
Oops, fuck, screwed the pooch, asked too much, knew the truth... On the train now, a caboose; in his brain now, no recluse. 80 blocks to Uptown spot, destination vocal booth, Metro-card like: "you get what you pay for, stupid", no excuse. He pulled his hoody off his cabbage rugged practical, and began to fancy the words I mistakenly jostled loose.
The stogie he brazenly lit where he sit looked legit, but when the flame touched to the tip, I could smell it was of another nip. He leaned his head back and inhaled the newpie dip and said:
"The whole design got my mind cryin', if I'm lyin', I'm dyin'..."
This is the sound of what you don't know killing you
This is the sound of what you don't believe: still true
This is the sound of what you don't want: still in you
TPC motherfucker, cop a feel or two |
|
|
