Dancing in the street in dream state flip mode,
To something that sounds like Buster Rhymes in Morse code.
It all started off with Tamla Motown
The very same week Detroit ghetto got burnt down.

Dance to the music playing in your head,
Spinning on the platform at the train station.
You're glad you're not dead, but the thing that you've had
Could very easily make you that way man.

In the street the police pass you by
It's Saturday night, they've bigger fish to fry
and you know, that they know, as long as you're high
You're living in fear 'til the day you die.

Go to the club to drink more poison,
Frighten the birds and damage your ear drums.
The tunes you hear are vain repetitions
In re-mix stylee rip-off systems.

The style you wear is second hand,
Even though you've paid two grand
To make yourself look like pimp gangstar.
What you spend on drink you could have bought a new car.

In-spite of it all the girls think you're a bore.
You can't score with them so you score more gear.
But the more you sniff, the more the gear
Seems to be starting to turn you queer.

In shame you go home all alone
and you just can't relax your priapitic bone.
You just can't interact with porn,
You're a lonely loser wanking over your cellphone.

Strangling your meat is a waste of semen.
Your spinal fluid is dripping away man.
Human life starts off as a sperm.
Masturbation is murder thinking in those terms.

Your mind is sick so you start to stick
A sterile spike into your wrist,
So you won't feel the pain no more
Of your bad boy culture failure.

© Joe