Shell

The shell is a puffy jacket. If you’re a true fan we’ll be able to tell. LA is the cap transplants misspell. The operation didn’t go well in the destination city. Wide awake from stadium sounds; not asleep. Filled up on high octane. The spark ignites the flow from inside the cage. Octagon. Fighting combos against chemical bonds. Battles go on cement till the paddles are applied to jolt the jewels back to life. The background is so lit from the volts, weaponized lightning bolts go before the lost and found. Abide, no longer run and hideout. An itty bitty faith stays so litty. Holy fire is wirelessly charging into eternity.

Run the sweeper around the curbs of the kingdom. Not parked in a stuffy garage after dark, but out and about on the Dodgy streets. What is this stuff? Shed our shells for the bled watershed. Keep all the essentials in a duffy. Hit until it’s a homer. There are no strikeouts or tap outs in salvation. The milk crates are empty of all the records. No scratching and repeating the fouls and sours. The hours are approaching when we see the Son. The upper decks are cheering like clouds computing for the win. No more. No More. No more me in these white pinstriped robes. Prop your feet up on the milk crate. Recline on the bench while the ear is inclined to wonders once the darkness is dugout of the heart. There is no shame at the service station.