Rainy With a Chance of Clouds

This week, folklore between the bars of prison

Social standing, all but accurate precision

All but boastful incision in the term of decision

Back then, the decommission of commitment

Now, the mission to dish in the belts of felt equipment

Write me

Tell me where to find the love

On the blue Earth, there is some

But it does not measure to up above

Or may I be pessimistic and say there is none

From finger

To trigger

To chamber

To slug of gun

From bullet

From barrel

To tower of apparel, undone

Sly quote, slick coat of white towel is sung

And slung

In slum

From tooth of gum

From roof, truth is hung

Your legs, they are burdensome

But use them to run

Majority ruler, mathematical pursuer

Pond of sewer is skewered whilst dollar is fond of fewer reviewers

Never winning in the game of fame, only losing

Weather is tame and humble to those whom fumble when choosing

Fool me once, shame on me

Fool me twice, this cannot be

Death is measured by 3′s

Under the green trees, the disease of concrete streets

My friend

My family

Two of word

My foes

So happy

Account for heard

Listen

~That Dude Eddie~

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Peace and love.

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