I can't compete
With the soldier man
You want to throw him
Into the bedroom
I have veteran status
Digging the ditch syndrome
Laying down in coffins
And hurling pills
Six foot mourning
You have neon shoulders
And certified boots
Licking the man nightly
I have the stomach of a brute
Creation
The back of a spineless disease
And you are ideally brown
Equated with supersonic beats
Instead of heavy lead footed heat
That I wade in
Further away from his horizon.
