Oh, sleeping in the trees.
Traveling light, an unseen breeze.
I never really thought I'd get caught in that quad, but I was wrong.
Oh, I wanna get well
and find a skill I can sell.
Because no one buys what I try
to give away.
Trapped in the city.
No sleep, no more.
Just stay up yelling
at pimps and whores.
Whores?
And what for?
What for?
Is this art or war?
And who made
the part of my brain
that makes music
feel like pain?
"Go to bed whiteass! Get straight! Get a job! You calling me crazy? What's your problem? Are you lazy? Disrespect me? You gotta pay me."
