We Could Do It Ourselves.

Picture One.

Go do.
The storm.
The crime.
The season.
The girl.

Ceramic hearts and clay feet,
upon a pedestal we could never reach.
Holy bibles hear the sound,
or sinner's beds moving around.

Go do.
The drugs.
The crafts.
The protests.
The girl.

Heavy hearts and silver thighs.
Stomped out a beat right in time.
Dreadlocks hardly hear the sound,
of the decades of music in the ground.

Go do.
The storm.
The crime.
The season.
The girl.