Immigration

I once scout for fresh forages out of my mother’s shoes over the coast, on the other side I wish, hoped, and heard of praises Only in my heads, not in my eyes They are special specs, taller than normal High as palms, greener than sour lemon Melodies on my drunken ears, whispers on my naïve mind Didn’t ask for a proof, before I fell So I sold my mother’s shoes, my legitimacy My freedom, my fit, no longer mine Because I had rum for stories, I wanted all of it And spent all on it Smiling to the mirage, crying to the mirage Cus I had bought an oversized shoe I may never fit, I never heard