Riding the lightrail with a heavy heart,
already steadily leveraged, part by bready beverage, bitter sting,
I sit alone a scribble things, with pens,
put petty art on parcels packed inside compartments,
of a bag I bring along on backs, I lag this sack of darts,
when spending time about, I rhyme it out, the finer points of life,
as I sit stuck atop the tracks, I jot one-liners that are tight,
anoint the white sheets with green splatters, leak what matters from the pen,
focused in on broken thoughts amongst the chatter and the din,
but don't get lost, 'cause in a minute, I'll get off, my stop is coming up, now thumbin' through a ton of stuff for number clues and money tucked,
it's funny how my funds abruptly disappear from pockets,
as I run the floor to walk through doors towards Phoenix city blocks,
kid feeling less than cocky, ought to know the address of the rock show,
if I had a map, I'd be a bit less agitated, got those chilly sweats just like gazpacho on my skin, but in the nick of time,
I see a friend by the liquor store, my Friday night is back on line

Feels like I'm jumping out the gate quicker,
life is short, take a picture,
back in the day, I used to hate liquor,
now I take shit straight, can't wait for the chase,
hit 'em with the proof to the face,
lookin' for a roof to get raised, uncouth in my ways, young youth in group, finna stay
with a one-two punch, get drunk, don't play, as we run through punks, don't want none, we say,
"Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go! Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!"

At time 'X', my mindset is too real to swerve, as I approach the curb with fuckin' nerves of Steel Reserve,
I feel perturbed, do I deserve this type of treatment,
too preoccupied with wipin' eyes to stop and great the cement,
toppled from my seat, feet went down to the ground, bound to repeat scenes of a clown,
my brown flesh scrapes the street, and it comes up red, they're all laughin',
my ship calls back to it's captain, asking me, "what happened?"
--same shit, couple sips had me slackin,
is it bad? I think I need an aspirin,
or maybe ibuprofen, I'm hopin' that my arm's not broken,
alarmed by the blood in the road,
maybe I should go, or at least get out of traffic,
load my stuff back in my pack, shit's real, I could have died,
won't always be this lucky when I'm fucked up,
Saturday, youngin' doin' dumb stuff

Feels like I'm jumping out the gate quicker,
life is short, take a picture,
back in the day, I used to hate liquor,
now I take shit straight, can't wait for the chase,
hit 'em with the proof to the face,
lookin' for a roof to get raised, uncouth in my ways, young youth in group, finna stay
with a one-two punch, get drunk, don't play, as we run through punks, don't want none, we say,
"Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go! Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!"

It's another under the weather day, I'm cloudy-headed, heather grey, had a rowdy night and regretted it, I'd better stay in bed a bit,
more complex than Oedipus, this session of depression hits,
I'm pressed against a precipice, just stressin' watching seconds tick... killin' Father Time,
I seek to lay with Mother Earth while other persons perch above me, what could love be, but a way to work and jerk me from this cubby,
I'm in a spot that's dark and muddy, but I'm not your buddy, stop it, feeling comfy in this dumpy plot, upshot is not the topic,
be myopic, life is caustic, I'm agnostic 'bout the causes,
feeling lost amongst these toxins as I opt to take my pauses,
when the gauze is stripped from wounds of life, at noon, I will rise rested,
it's a boon, a trifle vested in this next unit of wretchedness,
catchin' bits of football on a Sunday in October,
finding solace in the smallest shit as I sit in bed hungover

Feels like I'm jumping out the gate quicker,
life is short, take a picture,
back in the day, I used to hate liquor,
now I take shit straight, can't wait for the chase,
hit 'em with the proof to the face,
lookin' for a roof to get raised, uncouth in my ways, young youth in group, finna stay
with a one-two punch, get drunk, don't play, as we run through punks, don't want none, we say,
"Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go! Friday, Saturday, Sunday, go!"