Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3,
I'm comin' up with free rhymes for you and me,
Tonight I feel like a criminal, keep my talking minimal, pen and pencil, all in hand, I'm going on a writing spree,
The feeling is beyond liberating, that's a fact we're not debating, cause regardless of the cage that is the night, when I take up these words just to start a fight, I feel free,
I don't know why I'm up so late, maybe this was all meant to be, but if that's the case, I've been cursed with a fucked up version of fate,
Mind my language, I didn't mean to get vulgar, give off that eerie vibe that you feel when you look above and see a vulture, I'd rather we cook, eat, and dance salsa, y'see I'm Cuban, it's in my culture, and this ain't no place for hate,
The moon is up, let's play some music, take steps to the beat, sway with every song, forget that it's late,
Being like this, a constant whirlwind of words and letters, floating above the rising tide within my mind, insanity is a useless trait,
But it takes someone crazy to do this, put out a message so close to home only to receive something lazy, like catching a goldfish with golden bait,
It all ends the same way, anyways,
This is a job without the pay,
Does anybody want to spend the night, rambling on, going crazy, or writing songs?
I can't promise it'll be entertaining without vodka, but at the very least, it won't be long
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