Buck 65 Sore
Vultures and helicopters, overhead I'm breaking down Used car blues, it's no time to joke around The only solution I can think of so far Is to smash out the windows with a crowbar And as the headlights shatter into stars one by one I curse at the road and try to knock out the sun I kick in the corner panels, son of a whore The paint starts to chip off as I rip off one of the doors Same hotel room again with the right mixture Of terrible smells and dead flies in the light fixture I listen to the oldies station, half asleep and kind of smokey Girl in the next room is howling like a coyote Hand in my pants, feeling like a phyllistine All eyes empty, every door way a guillotine I'm drunk on loneliness, out of shape and half eaten The phone don't work and God's in a staff meeting Out of breath at the end of a long summer Waiting for a phone call that isn't a wrong number A smile from a pretty girl, feet don't fail me I sleep like a baby and get out of jail free I spit my teeth in my hand and read the classifieds Poke holes in my memories until I'm satisfied I'm drawn to familiar environments and dangers I look at my photo albums and all I see are strangers
