Rhythm

Riding under the street lamps.    
Feet stamping the gas pedal, The last rebel the mettle with the elites plans.
steam grass seaping through each glass window with the intentions the beat sam, until im shifting with 3 hands.  Im ditchin police scanners to get to new orleans parish, Forming an asortment of soldiers whos orders to leave ashes on every prestige campus. Cannabis leaves passing through each classmate. you think that they ever can breathe? what a hell of a dream every one inhaling a tree. freeing there cerebellum of the programming that stem from a screen. releiving their heads of theme embeded in heavinly  
D-eception and wearing there skellinton free of every thing D-epressin them. rather we see progression or rest in our greed, that should be left to what we let it instead of a green President.