Funhouse

Funhouse, funhouse, funhouse....runs 'round rampant like a broken recording. A constant reminder of all the world’s ills outside this windowsill.  Vivid in my mind like flashing neon lights, running mascara, and warped faces in the frothy swirls of my morning coffee creamer…but I’m a dreamer steady hoping against hope, against ticking of the tock as people beating the clock, crawling up and down these inner city blocks…it’s a minstrel show. Aye, turn that conscious shit down and turn up! Lo behold there goes Sambo on yo' radio but like LL I can’t live without it. The beat hits them chakras...surrounded by show stoppers and pill poppers –  I call ‘em Lohans. Meanwhile, Sam I am in these trenches steady Willy Lynchin' next to booby traps promising the biggest booty so niggaz be like I got mines…clowns don't realize the jokes on them.  Signs of a time when children kill, grown men squeal and women endure madmen for rent money and cheap thrills. Blind leading the blind so the love is lost but fuck it I’mma BOSS! It cost to be. Funhouse, funhouse, funhouse…her nose is red like October with lashes longer than her lies, meanwhile his heart is in the trap steady laughing hysterically at their own demise. Huffin' and puffin' running through this maze just to huff an puff after a long day in a purplish haze. Yet, the shit got me wound up….so I pops up outta this box and startle everyone passing through. They told me keep calm, relax, and pass the time away...ignore the view. Snatch the needle off the wax.