he was a southern town with a gun in his mouth
the tom petty ladies with their limo panties giggling
brought the heat down but it brought the heat up
for the strangers in the drugstore, and the styled beats

he was walking with a pimp nickle before he could walk
tarred throat, riding on leather finish, fresh from the street
he would pull out the nine like an on-time bad comeback
just to see if the ghetto trash would laugh his face off

there was noone there but a black-lipped roach with a limp
bathtub rusty enough for a blues album, and the air stale for everyone
except the black rags, who would slave away for their crack master on the fifth
things ain't never change, for him, for nobody

and he held his head against the concrete of the mucus alleys
weak feet slipping on the surfaces of bleeding orifices
and wear a proud smoking cap, until his own mouth filled with smoke,
cause with a smile he would joke, if he weren't dead and flopping like a fish