They call me Skinhead, I have my beauty.
Sweaty knife with letters on the back sweaty
My eyes clearly stray from this way
I sat in my boring meeting box
I sat next to the dwarf with his tired scent
Flour my hair for shaving
How is the weather? Hincala?
They can get blood on the surface of the skin.
That is the responsibility of the righteous
Anointed roads.
My face moving in the mirror was big and rough
Pink petals, apples, pale
I was filled with my own saliva.
Skin cutting machine two years ago
He sucked and held my hand
Knead the root of three fingers.
I felt nothing until I saw myself
I saw one of them on the ground
Next to the heel of my shoe,
I have not worked since.
I was sitting here while Nigger was watching TV
I walk like a king on the sidewalk with my head
Go as their fat mothers call for their freedom.
The teacher is wrong.
So I go out.
My beauty hangs over their heads,
Or at night
With connecting pipe
The barber was trapped in the pavilion.
I was born to do the right things.
Now I can easily cover my big body
They went to a place where nothing would happen
In a huge frame of light
A faucet rose up in my head to let the water out of the barrel.
Your eyes are happy to grow
Round and shiny, like children in a cartoon forest
Another thing they know
Cut yourself, I have that thing
I like to talk, I like to listen, I like to talk
"Hey Nigger, Abe Lincoln is long dead."
It’s hard for me to hear your skin explode.
I was born to do the right things.
Then the boy came out of the newspaper
It was as if I had hit his ass hand a little recklessly
He opened the hole, screaming about it.
This reporter found me lying on the bed
This TV wiped my clean face
Same shame.
I do not have a job, those who have colored gooies soups will have everything.
Why do not I work? Look at my hand, gray.
No, I'm not in an organized group
I am a white man who cares about his people
They are fighting for a clean country.
Sometimes it’s just me. Sometimes three. Sometimes 30.
AIDS takes care of the drums
Then the streets turn white.
Then there will be three million.
I said yes.
Then he wrote this
And I look like an extraordinary
He was like Hitler. I was not very successful
But there is my beauty
These are my steel shoes
Under the weight of my shaved head
I looked in the mirror and raised my broken arm
Only the little finger is stuck,
I know this is not a funny finger
But the same is denied
I was in the perfect race.
My face is pink-shiny.
I am your American son, your son
I'm full of saliva, I'm so good
And I was born
The pain traveled me
Here: