Guzzling' down water in a bottle
Swallowin' full horse throttle speed
I'm in the most centralist center of the Central Park
In a brown, business casual suede dress amongst a friendly mass of trees and shrubbery...
Where there's no fryin' flies or beggin' pigeons,
No honky-tonks, nor "Ay mamacitas"
This subtle breeze is a prelude to the afterlife of the deceased...
It gives me escapism from the weariness I just endured on my job...
A cure for these weird twists and turns from my burning summer life...
So demure, the wind on my face is mature beyond it's years...
It collaborates well with the wishin' water of the pond of our tears
Serenity... a serenity, so serene and surreal...
Away from this nauseating field of plastics...
Away from the elastically stretching band of nonexistent air-quality that's outta control...
Away from the grasps of those who obstinately release what they've held...
You know the type...
They say,
"Do what you want, but there's hell to pay with me in the front-line of close range cross-fire"
Meaning that they leave their palms open with krazy glue
Slapped onto your bottom,
Makin' 'em feel like they still "got 'em"
But this spot dat I'm at...
doesn't do that...
Instead, ushers you to a realm of Medieval fantasy
Offering fresher solutions
Rather than to manning whiskey
And to bask in the task of soakin' up hope...
Is to make copin' much less, risky...
