Swing For The Fences

A fold-in piece I collab'd with my boy Vince (http://www.myspace.com/slomotion52588) on. He's a dope writer. Check his stuff out. If you know what a "fold-in" piece is, then you'll know what I'm talkin' about lol.




I heard Jim and Jack are with me on a barstool. They both treat me the same again and again. After two shots each please just shoot me down. I start to get a nice high and go, SWOOSH!. That is usually when I talk about the Bush administration. Hate. A strong word, a miracle of saturation. Well needless to say my feelings are absolutely amazing. Overtime I guess they're my starry night ablazing. I'm not a fan of Kanye and I dont dream of Siegal. His music is a story of stupidity and immense growth. But usually hes a egotist munching manna loaf. Or a torn soul depending on your governments control. I've seen it both ways inside a very steep hole. Depending on my mood we both grow up and breathe. I'm not the type of person to make you roll-up a sleeve. Never knew anyone named Judy could down all this vodka. But if you do meet someone before its all over with. SWING FOR THE FENCES.

This story is gonna begin with jack brothers, well fuck it. And end with alcohol poisining the same. I wish someone would join me for a few beers. Around this time the YMCA has a nice buzz going on. And freeworld leaders beg me to stop hating her. Now I'm waiting on a deluxe miracle right. You are pretty normal and feelings for her were far from week. Van gogh is to blame for the setting growing stronger. Hotter than the Nevada desert but I hate Kanye though. I dream of Sinatra and stupidity and thats okay at times. I'll chop down a tree of life for you egotistical bastard. I am a minion and I seek how you look at it. Yes. Now is the time we are pretty much the same. The blue-collar deathwish is making me a person to judge. Pull up a chair and drink a drink named Judy. Make a man out of me with that name. And I'll be sure to swing for the fences.

Might not hit a homerun but only a few run deep. Usually the bitches I meet keep me restless. So they're pretty much at one with their new identity. Not wearing any jeans during human contact. But I hear its My genes, Your panic room. Am. AM, like you can't ignore your manic doom. And just call me a Pro as if you DO KNOW ME. On the other hand, the one that knew me choked on blood. A cover up to hide you being placed in the guillotine. Deep inside hoping the one I knew best won't tell it. The trap door lingers, can you smell it. With hopes I will keep the amnesia of ambrosia. Yes. Thats what rips a smile to a million bits. So with that in mind I take everything you feel. And hope the flavor is already dead or soon killed. Sort of like leftover soups-the meaning of meaninglessness. It always taste best with a deck of shuffled tarot cards. WHY IS THAT?.