He looked at life, he pondered death.
He wasted his youth strung out on meth.
He looked in mirrors, lost in himself.
He wasn't worried about his mental health.
His teeth were rotting just like his mind.
Two years on meth had not treated him kind.
He snorted it he smoked it, shot it in his arm.
Folks were surprised, he'd not bought the farm.
He was known to the cops, they all knew his name.
They were much better at playing his games.
They had all the guns, his brain was fried.
His mother sat home at night, oh how she cried.
Fearing he was followed, paranoia strikes deep.
He'd perch at the window and watch shadows creep.
Shadows were enemies, they were hot on his tail.
If he went to jail he would never get any bail.
He feared knocks at his door.he loved bag-whores.
What kept him alive was his hunger for more.
Uncle Joe Biden loved him and paid all his bills.
Joe didn't care that the speed he sold quickly kills.
If he was good for a few votes, Joe kept him alive.
Supported all his bad habits, made sure he thrived.
The day though would come when he met Mr. Death.
Joe would quickly find others strung out on meth.
The cycle would continue, all the dope friends he needs.
Joe would be reelected his conscience guilt free.
Graveyards would be many and how quickly forgot.
Joe doesn't care about losers or the farms they bought.
D.L. Crockett -- 3/15/24