Woe is what these thoughts have wrought; slivers of regret, the moments long gone that the psyche can not forget, despite the peace it sought. Preoccupied in this oblivion, livin in the margins, that's the comfort I've afforded-- and in stagnant disarray, I wonder: Where's my gawd awful, no good Suga Daddy? Where's the money for the gas, and the key for the freedom machine? It's a drag, indeed, if I were a woman my tits would sag, and I'd be standing in that expectant stance. Instead, in the spirit of dreams my soul takes to the dance between apotheosis idealized and it's design which lies unrealized, brooding on when my feet might embark on the cursed journey. There's always the subtle distractions, the quivers and sudden mindless emotions which do well in enforcing my impulsive, erratic flight path... Always another worry, doubt looming whenever it seems fashionable-- like a fag in Frisco doin the drag, belittling my worth and questioning my manliness, who's suggestive sway extinguishes all traces of virility. It's that time when my mind is left with one steadfast thought: What the fuck chuck? life got you sapped, sucked dry, and outta luck? Fuck the curse, steal that faggots purse, it's a good day for carjackin-- C'mon cunt, get the fuck off your ass, start packin, and go manifest destiny. The slow drag of a cigarette settles it. "Who's Next?"