Black to Slab to Back

I spent the day getting crunk, I shoulda crot a job
Next they’ll pull down my jaw cause I sitting tall
They think it’s more like a flash in a pan then calm
No, I swear to god I’m at the next slam with a bomb

No, I got this guitar just to beat your face
No, I’m racing this car just to drive in place
No hailing necessary; yay’s on my face
Formula 500- I came here to get wasted

No, you didn’t grab attention, you just spoke arrestings
Existentialist poetry, catch smoke with dressings
If you wanna story stabbed out, whispering, messy
I don’t even have a phone, doesn’t matter just text me

Fuck living in the city, I’m buying a shed
Fuck all this flirting – god bless the dead
Fuck all this murder- a coma’s all you get
So many words to hurt her from A to Z