Cold Summer
The soul breaks,
In multiple takes,
And not because of stress,
Or by being under duress,
I tried,
But it cannot be cured with a French Press,
Maybe by being quiet,
So shut the fuck up, and say less,
Because This soul is old,
tired and cold,
Fired from heaven above,
Bold and blunt,
Tired of these cunts,
Chill out, inhale this White Runtz
Not yet free, but never sold,
Like in a fight, I never fold,
I love this city, even its summer’s cold.