Crashintome
The Poets
Whipping clouds, so bloody red...
Married to to the pulse of our blood
the poets run these streets
The howls hit the facings from west
to northeast
The fake 'n bake girls with streetlight shine
Grafitti artists with the Adidas touch...
Touch fingers to feel the beats
Hurry to the scent of our blood
the poets run these streets
Tipping our waitress in the back of the pub
through the glass... in the lies of the theif
In the class of your soul that's left without love
we coincide with the pounds of our feet.
Traffic floods the gates to our club
while our cousins paint faces in pink
You smoke on your stoge in the base of flood
because the poets run these streets.
Married to to the pulse of our blood
the poets run these streets
The howls hit the facings from west
to northeast
The fake 'n bake girls with streetlight shine
Grafitti artists with the Adidas touch...
Touch fingers to feel the beats
Hurry to the scent of our blood
the poets run these streets
Tipping our waitress in the back of the pub
through the glass... in the lies of the theif
In the class of your soul that's left without love
we coincide with the pounds of our feet.
Traffic floods the gates to our club
while our cousins paint faces in pink
You smoke on your stoge in the base of flood
because the poets run these streets.
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The Poets
The Poets
