im just a bonus track of an era,
whispers sign language through a mirror,
whilst majestic visions appear,

catch a lick of bass bin piano funk,
will i only know i was alive,once ive sunk,
deep in my thoughts dwelling in your top bunk,
lips round the zoot,bunning the highgrade skunk,
waking up at 6pm,to find last nites victim still in my trunk.

listen to the ever growing crops,
creeping through the lines reaching the tops,
fresh is not the word,
just sold to mold,
free is not the word,
hot sweats in the freezing cold,

your just the melting tip of an iceburg on my rage of a wave,
never to save the slave in me,
puffing till my feet grow roots of the weed tree,

the plan is to stand,
jotting notes and scriptures on the palms of his hands,

clone of my face,
spying on my actions from another rat race,

watching me shower n'shave with recycled mace, and waste,
in the darkest place of pitch blacks,
no shortage of lunatics,theres stacks,
from the citys to the most remote of country tracks,

dry off my soaked thoughts,stepping back in the room,
their presence tells me im not alone,
seeing my home sweet home in two tone,