On The Fray [of a Tight Rope Suicide]

Man, when e'er the situs arise,
I feel my mind 'scaping to get hig'
No mo'e wond'ring wha' mie come nex'
'Cause I'm crank'd out once aga'n.
I do not assume to contrive a splinter
Whilst a plank bores into my iris.
I clearly understand blinders hinder
My peripheral sightlines.
Man, why ya always askin' tho'e dumas'
Nerd things makin' nonsense of it
Wit' no rhyme or reason
Makin' e'erone go peacin'.
I shall not walk upon a level
Nor shall I balance high in the air
Without knowledge of protection
In instance that I fall from here.
Grab yo' stuff now an' flee
'Efo' som' dumshi' happen
With all the catastrophes
Yo' talk is the lame as 'ell.
My speech is a catalyst propound
My swagger a march upright
My view askew
My soul a ring...
Watch yo' mouf, man.
Yo' 'tude not the plan.
Put yo' teef out.
With smack of a hand.
Wearily I travel this pedulum
Hopes arise for something plumb
And believing the book
I found that I am overtook.
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