juancatalyst
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He’s perfumed with alcohol,
Very filthy like the slums latrines,
Talks fact, but his brain drunk,
His words are black and white like the skunk,
The bull he shoots hits the slum dunk,
They call him the junk.
In wine there’s truth,
She’s wine that makes my heart drunk,
That bottle imprisoned her,
Took an opener to unleash the wine,
Wine changed the air to colour red,
Then I was stuck and my heart found faint,
3 years old and father is ill. Ill.
I'll see him quench his obsessions, filling his demons with the drink of death.
They burn his insides, destroying our home,
while he sits calmly releasing his bitter smoke.
