When you entered you were shook, and I looked up from my book. An infant wrapped in wet rags clinging to your neck. Before I could ask you said you found him in a basket beneath a raft upon the shore that was wrecked the night before so: down the river once more. Babies we cannot afford.
If you're down with rhythm say "I found the beat." And if your beats get tired throw them right back in the street. And if your friends are hungry then they can go to sleep. And if your baby doesn't pull its own weight in sample rate then it's out in the street.
Clouds make evil sounds like rednecks wasting rounds to the sky before a hanging or cargo trains derailing. As we stride to the bank in the mud, all slime and rank, you say I'm rotten to the core. I say, "That's why all the more..."
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