A piece of my sirloin shines sour,
his sandals littered now burned bare feet,
and grown men can't keep their tires worn free!
a good solid tread is a must....
Where the grass drew green hue grown to glow on the horizon,
for my last faraway 'till my putts dress sheik,
these times laughter turns on only the greek gambler,
and Tron fit for a summer treated to a round of ping-pong,
pray for the showers to rejuvenate our game,
so the pitter-patter-patterns to a beat soundly encoded in tounges,
and the gods are tellin' us straight faced to get it on,
and my buddy thinks he has just been knighted by the queen!
sick and drug youths use recycled generations,
as that excuse to live in evil and lie obscene.
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