Citizen M

walking down mare street
with ipanemea sandals on my feet
splashing sleet in cold drips
fake ripped jeans got real rips
started to vape tried to force quit
deisel and BBQ is the flavours I hit
im the soul patch on your moustache ride
when you let your flat out to sky TV (for a zombie apocolypse shoot)
and youve got nowhere left to hide.
You slip instep with a jack the ripper tour
and get mistook for the guide
phone batt percent is down to four-ish
matcha green smoothie fountain kinda moreish
adult movie on the TV
set the mood lighting to whore-ish
(on the ipad its called 'romantic')
most art nowadays is just semantic
on the back of the handout is a picture of your face as a map
pedantic, bewildered and showing confusion
alienated hurt  continuing cultures chain of abusion
pull down invisible metaphorical fake working class flat-cap's
coarse wool over your eyes
gather harry potter's real dad's magic cloak around your thighs
to disguise yourself as you shadowbox security guards on behalf of guys
in public toilets smoking synthetic natural highs
you left your clip-in top knot at my house last night
and the seven pound desert wines effect wore off at first sight
and in the morning i was moaning that I felt like shite
outsdide the awning of the kidd medieval moorings chalk bright white
the wind blows little bone china single-use clay pan pipes
from mouths that were calling people cunts here 200 years ago
with fouth breath shud be brushed more
and the real gibbet post neck noose yawning merchants foe
ekeing out public death to crushed poor
mostly the same organisation of power
glitter and wetness on the bed
represents an excellent type of shower

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