Tornados and ripped lines,
Sitting on pairs of mixed jeans,
Broken glasses and ashes’ down the road,
Sitting on her steps, saying she better not suppose,
That those shoes by the gutter will be fitting on her toes,
With torn up PJs and hash browns in the mix of clothes,
But whistling on the sunshine, a man once said wise,
Diamonds keep falling from these skies,
Raining down some raindrops, and a couple ‘of sighs,
Still pushing forward, it’ll make its way to the front yard,
Shadows that’ll creep onto your alars, [wings]
With some darkness, and some demons,
Bulging eyeballs, barely breathing,
But the shapes in the payment,
So flagrant yet fragrant,
And to avoid this, enslavement,
But darkness on the neckties,
Shouldn’t take her by surprise,
Cause everyone’s got their demons with a side order of French fries.