If I come your way, you can’t escape me. I’m a dark Siciliano from the backstreets that made me. You can’t see me. I aim my fedora low, pin-striped like my Grandfather used to make. When my whisper hits your ears, it’s already too late. I’m soaked in rum, to kill the scum that I get from me mum’s line of the family. So blame me for being dumb to beat my drum when you say what you say so cordially. You’re not so tough, you actually think you’re buff but you’re still a tiny turd hiding in the rough. Loud mouthed, short and wide, a heart attack away from how your father died. Or was it a burst, which was worse? I can’t remember cause that bitch was cursed. All along, create a new song BUT WAIT, something you don’t do anymore cause you weren’t strong, enough, too busy hiding in the rough all them years, full of fears and meals, feeding your fat ass while trying to strike a deal, a bum on the side with your mouth open wide, receding hairline and a dildo in your ass aimed so high but keep smiling, like you think you’re going to keep trying. The funny thing of all is I’m not even lying, but listen, is that you who I hear crying? Hiding, behind your dream, a punk who wishes he was Wolverine. To explain it to you…you’re the past. Sit on your bench and try to read this shit fast…even then, it will still sting ya and last.