So I guess I didn’t measure up.
I had the same substance, gram for gram,
but not concentrated enough.
You were after the hard stuff:
the class As, fire for the veins,
a perfect ten for your well versed brains.
My shit wasn’t the hit you needed,
I concede that.
But someone else will buy it,
and I’ll keep selling, and I’ll make a killing;
you’ll be telling your friends you knew me when.
I’m a gateway drug. Your kids will be doing me,
snorting lines I gave them.
When you overdose on high art,
the adrenaline needle you so desperately need
for your heart
will be me.
