C'est le deuxieme poeme.

Like a blast from the past goin' fast down the track slip-slidin' left and right like my fingers down your back. Sit or lying high and flyin' through skies with divine time passin' by like life in spin cycles. I don't need to do all this but bluntest clips shall never miss counting up life four, five, six. That fuckin' bliss tricks, throwin' bricks at your back. Back to the black-jacket-wearing mack fool acting chill mad cool filling hearts with cigarettes, makin' bets, he never frets about regrets. You know the stuff he holds deep in the folds, old mold-growing times gone by like that blast from that past. Babe, you're going way too fast, so grab this moment, it's your last.