Post by notavailable on Dec 5, 2009 3:28:11 GMT -5
Cokehead on the bus. Telling me he don't do no drugs no more cause he don't like them. Makes him all paranoid he says. He says he don't even drink except for last thanksgiving, and it had been a whole year. He's a liar. He asks me if my pupils are enlarged. Says I'm on crack or meth. Tells me he has some for sale. Until he looks at my eyes again and sees that I'm sober. He takes it back. Says it was a joke. No, drugs are bad he says. Makes him anxious. He used to, when he was younger. Now he just drinks on Thanksgiving. And maybe a little bud he says, but just a few hits. But only on Thanksgiving. He don't do them heavy drugs no more. He used to, when he was younger. He's a liar.
Now he just looks at lovely young women on the bus, like her, dreads colored like the lights on a Christmas tree, dressed in fashionable hand-stitched rags, and he begins to rhythmically poetically speak words of his fame. He gets the ladies. Does with them what he pleases. f**ks them in the ass and makes them feel it in their chest. People know his name, and they know his fame. He's a liar. He says he don't have to work for his fortune. Work is a word he doesn't speak. He gets what he wants for his smooth talking, his slick speaking, and his synchronized selection of words. This is his name and this is his fame. On the 115 to Mays Pond in the middle of the night. He points his crackfinger at me says "do you have problems? Because problems are no good. You should fix your problems. I fixed my problems. I have no problems." He's a liar. I think to myself if you have no problems than nobody does. "My stop is here. Good day to you sir."
Now he just looks at lovely young women on the bus, like her, dreads colored like the lights on a Christmas tree, dressed in fashionable hand-stitched rags, and he begins to rhythmically poetically speak words of his fame. He gets the ladies. Does with them what he pleases. f**ks them in the ass and makes them feel it in their chest. People know his name, and they know his fame. He's a liar. He says he don't have to work for his fortune. Work is a word he doesn't speak. He gets what he wants for his smooth talking, his slick speaking, and his synchronized selection of words. This is his name and this is his fame. On the 115 to Mays Pond in the middle of the night. He points his crackfinger at me says "do you have problems? Because problems are no good. You should fix your problems. I fixed my problems. I have no problems." He's a liar. I think to myself if you have no problems than nobody does. "My stop is here. Good day to you sir."
