Sven Goran Eriksson
The way you coached the train-wreck
that was the tri-color of my heart
gave a stratocaster-Carlos Santana-punk
like me
a shot from the trigger-pull-bloodshed-process
that only a failure such as your bosses could produce.
My respects go to none; ******** the soccer ball.
It's the only damn thing still true to its purpose;
not like those snot-nosed grown men like
Pavel, Vela, or Ochoa.
(punk-bitches with titties tied to their teeth,
loving themselves more than the good ol' universal sport)
For the love of..
Ever since I saw that twinkle in your ice,
the sparkle in your bars, the pool of green paper,
I fell in love with your fortune.
In The Barrio (In The Ghetto/Hood)
Cholos, or vatos, act stupid,
like little kids with toy guns,
and ride lowriders like Nascar drivers
with neon glow showing off their money.
"Que pasa esse?" is often heard before a fight;
first the guy answers, "Que *****, homes?" and then
either of them swing for their lives.
But it's summer times; and, just like Lil' Rob,
"we be gettin' to party (party)"
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