1/28/11

weasels whittlin the woods into homes for the domes, for good

weaseL's wittle fingers r workin my strings helpin me put away all my things
so i can clean up n get down to the important stuff, the manifestation of dreams
hes shakin the snow from my boots n stashin the tiny pieces of loots
in the sole of my soul of my stolen golden roots. shoots
a message to my brain, try to make it less insane
no more roamin like the roman ruiners druid dragons breaths of flames

weaseL's whittlin down the word so itll fit into my noggin
& i b lettin it out unto the world loggin nonsense all too often
trompin like i need to be somewheres rompin & a stompin
ill b honest if im headed anywhere important
its probly that giant pile o coffins
that they got stashed somewhere in the dessert of nevada
the devil dont scare me tho cousin & i got no ideas whats prada
well they dont make duofold that ones for certain
designer long underwears maybe crouchin catwalks like the serpent
burpin up the remnants of that last pbr it sure was refreshing
carbonated rice water in my veins like salad with no dressing
hey dont ask me man i got this weaseLLLLy varmint pullin my strings
hes makin me put these things down tonight a puppet show for the king

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