No mics no peas but plenty black eyes
Every time I swipe, bear at salmon style
Every time I try I backslide
End up several steps back
Or upon my backside
On the flipside I didn’t die
Must be getting stronger
Finished off my third cow pie
Can feel my dick getting longer
Didn’t even take off her thong, getting fingered
Ginger minge matches the thatch
If she resembles Anne of Cleaves
I’m fleeing like leaves from trees
When it starts to freeze
Febreeze the curtains and pillows, because they stink of weed
Can barely see outside, so apply windolene
Smoking drawer
It’s top drawer
Kept in my top drawer
About my intake no misgivings
Over income, I’ll cause killings
If I pause, that’s deliberate
Looking through a window
You’re in the kitchen
I’ll be there demanding the difference
Don’t care if you’ve got no pot to piss in
Not even half a shilling
Sleeping outside, out of pocket
Feeling like an Irish Steve Wallace
Everything you say equates
To a load of bollocks, jizz stain
Constipated that means shit is staying
Once flesh is invaded
They become patients
Waiting to be seen by Galen.
Alchemisland 
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