SUNDAY MORNINGS
By Buckshot
SUNDAY MORNING, WOKE UP LATE,
DOWN ON THE KICKER WITH ALL MY WEIGHT.
THREE MORE KICKS AND IT STRUGGLES TO LIFE,
OUT IN THE STREET, I WAVE TO THE WIFE.
SHE WAVES BACK BUT I KNOW SHE'S PISSED,
UP WITH THE SHIFTER, TWIST OF THE WRIST.
WIND IN MY FACE AND NOWHERE TO GO,
NOT A COP IN SIGHT, BUT I'LL TAKE IT SLOW.
STACCATO RUMBLE OF SLASH - CUT PIPES,
DOWN AT THE CORNER AN OLD MAN GRIPES,
COUNTRY ROADS OR MOUNTAIN STREAMS,
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