If you sit and wonder for long enough, and you smoke a blunt,
The strong stuff, it’ll feel like you provoke the hunt
You choke and grunt, and wonder, if it pleases vandals,
Knowing they don’t have to walk in Jesus’ sandals,
Is it easier to follow deer’s fawn prints, with a clear conscience,
They look under Christmas trees, seeing Nintindos,
To Santa, children ask list these please, where the sin goes,
Where ever the wind blows, they enter through ten windows,
Finally through the entrance, the smile, and the grin shows,
Each of the men knows, and knew the sentence, they sell souls,
Its in the deepest parts of hell’s holes, where the swell folds,
The fingerprints, matter not but on the other hand their finger tips,
Have the individuality of a monumentous singer’s lips,
And inside the bedroom, pitbulls, knock when they bark,
Or do they bark when they knock, is it a walk in the park,
If they have nothing to hide, how come they talk in the dark,
Alleyways are market places, rabid dogs bark at faces,
Where kings, queens, and jokers, jack to target aces,
They ramble off languages, mixed and mashed, gibberish,
Is a gamble, soft anguishes, smaller fish eaten by bigger fish,
It’s rigorous, their contacts a crooked bunch, I figure this,
Green, blue, and brown are what’s in the eyes of crooks,
But sometimes the canned food turns and fries the cooks,
Can you hear the puppeteers, laughter, but corrupt sneers,
They never admire stone architecture, they just love arrows,
So they must mark the fletcher, a mix of dove sparrows,
White with blood, what will they hide the grave site with mud,
That’s simple enough, but the way they hide it isnt mere art,
It’s where Michelangelo’s worst fears start, and peers part,
Crooks have their broken hearts, plus David’s and Mona Lisa’s,
The ring the mono tone is creases, to them it is sewn in pieces,
Crooks must play keep away, but just while you sleep today,
If I looked into the irises, if I look into the blue eyes of the crook,
Where the patience and deceit is, and where it lies when you look,
Are there tears still, if the tears don’t get him, then the fears will,
How do they feel, knowing they’re contributing to this fowl nation,
Jail time failed crime, for spots are spots on a dalmation,
The escape, is best part, in the eyes of a crook, it’s a pardoned devil,
Each new house or bank, to them it is such like a hardened level,
Where pawn shops, are carnivals, for carnivores, come in intervals,
Thinking one step ahead, its fall wondering what the winter holds,
Where that sharpened shard of wood, the tiniest of splinter dulls,
With the silence of libraries, the silence of graves, fenced bastards,
Coupled with knowing they have violence of slaves against masters,
Where broken glass, is an everyday sight, an every day fight,
To never get caught, don’t leave any traces, the many faces,
Disguised with disguises and knives the size of a cook,
So let us all just quickly look, into the eyes of a crook,