"I'ma rasta 50%, 50% Stone"
Raston Suburban Resistance
(1) sleep
undaunted riots in the city, rest
buildings,
stone statues and silver-barely-
a drunk on the pavement, a whore
corner and an air of old memories
with loose silhouettes.
I stand in full stampede
exile with my brothers Raston.
himself
seedy bar ever,
temptation at every corner
-leaving putrid drop-in new pleasures
on new trends.
no longer the weed,
or guilt, or fear
.
Just me!
(2)
death is triggered, the days absent
(I know you do not see it)
roads are frightened, the ailment
survive (maybe tomorrow you can understand)
failing to deconstruct the time
for us next.
Nothing.
Street our steps
my exile,
(or rather, my self-imposed exile)
and tonight in the Tunnel,
our night.
And only the wind dared
dare challenge us.
You have to pay!
(3)
Marx's day,
but no stones, or tires
,
neither this company, not the utopia
Street
only our exile.
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