This is fucking buck cheggy,
Someone just farted loudly,
Like it aint no thang,
Rusty byotches lingering around,
Carrying plastic bags.
Smells like terpenchime,
Buck checkle in my nose hair grime.
Broken pipes like broken hymes,
And Id rather be loose swinging on vines.
But ill sit here typing rhymes,
Instead of doing lines,
Or waiting in lines,
Or doing time,
Or waiting for the right time.
The right time is the night time,
Ripe time, take a bite,
Of a ripe lime, juiced,
At the right equatorial line.
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