(E-A-F_C-E)
I'll be sitting inside
Waiting on the BBQ pregnancy rite
Hiding from my own fight
Taking shots to the ribs while issuing kicks
But it does not matter how much I drank last night
Snorting coke through a straw thinking this liquid burns
Fist of five fingers she said I could use it
Seven jabs in the midriff she won't sing
High five to the punchline and my tooth is losing
I massage my fingers and thumbs before each day
I beat the shit out of me and you hit me using my drum machine
And I smoke drum from the bag looking back to a twenty year old Durham rag
As always I'm flown away on her wings
