Jump channel,
swagger like a crip.
Switch on,
candy apple sun.
Lay back in that two dollar room.
We'll score soon like a store dinner.
Fueled on oblivion.
Let it wash over you, make you sick.
Wake you up,
make you sicker.
There's beauty in the alleys.
Hate in the gutters.
Blood in the galleries.
You can sell your problems.
I'm the real thing.
Finalize your start,
candy apple sun.
Stand too close and the paint begins to run.
Gears grinding inside of a brown skin.
You can trace a history, it's south of the tin.
East of angels when they take lives and salvage cars.
Prayers answer questions of anxiety.
Lead the hope to the back streets and the freeways.
What street are you from?
It don't matter to someone.
Hate in the gutters.
Blood in the galleries.
You can sell your problems.
You don't want the real thing.
I get my mail at the bar.
My wheels in the till.
When I make a mess, it won't matter much.