Monday, October 15, 2012

Gimmie Grit

What's happened here. 
We're all in a rush. 
Claiming we have somewhere to go. 
I want lightly light knooks with the best scotch. 
Forget the soda, son. I want to feel this one hit. 
Settling into the pit of my being, bring your cigarette box. 
Light me up, don't put me down, let the smoke give us an appearance. 
I want the straight shooter look with the leather taste. 
I want hotel rooms, destroying places. 
I want match book phone numbers and lipstick stains.
What's happened here.
Everything so polished. 
Forget the disguise. 
We want to see the good time on your clothes. 
Gimmie grit

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