Snitching, wingless bullets
Playing oxo on a path of golden stones,
following the smoke of a burned cat's gone
catch the 'snitching' bullet and cut his 'flies'
wingless bullets always pronounce lies.
Barbies imitating girl-bands with fame
winning a star or ten in the hall of shame
London Hartfield, waiting for the flight
bird in metallic out of sight.
Fallen trees beneath purple leaves
uncoding those theories everyone believes
I'd like to hang on a black-ligned tie
stop breathing, stifled by lies.