Not the Pigs

I am not a cop- but I sure do viscous, recollecting roll roads, being superstitious. I do what I do every single day, when I get up to my bed being made- making some power out of my gravy. So sour, the dreams I see engraved, the bad man walks with prowess, the eager are dumped out of towers, so sour is the taste of being slit... when my blood doesn't mix... does that enhance all your ****? If time was a diss- would life end with ecstasy and bliss? If my mind was print- would the papers have any of it? I always ask, do you remember what you said? I always possess, something that I know is only mine, I always do things that I know aren't that funny, but do it because I need the symmetry. I've never won a fight but still possess the infinity. Dam that old man... **** the kittens... Dragging along linens, soaked up by millions. Sweat seems to pour when I rain, Jim-heads seem to dance when I sing, my girl like's her signals when I dream... So might the forest always be black, might the rivers always be on track, may you always be young, and may I age old like rum, seated and spun- always hanging in on the runs, getting home only after I've come to believe in the after-life learning of my fun.