Your brain is a person obsessed with ice cream. Vanilla pools gleam beneath first rings. Reflection inflates on a hot sugar bubble. You stare till it pops and you do a "why me"? I conjure a gun in my hand and shoot up. I smack that ass till them tears fill up my cup. This excess of positive vibes equals trouble. Says alien silver tongue deep in my gut. I threw up these thoughts in the trunk of a jone, and hoped that my bro would wake welcoming a foreigner dripping lost on his shoulder, and I know that were older, but I still see you as the other eye in my beholder, but fuck it man, I'm cool, still blowing.