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by G.H. Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Poetry · Crime/Gangster · #1620896
I never know what these things are about.
We sat on the mountain,
seein' the others go home.
We were done and countin',
but it hadn't been known.

Last time I was with a crook,
we were hitting up Peru,
with all of the things we took,
cause' we had nothin' to do.

He had found me in L.A.,
and much to my relief,
he payed me to come his way,
so I was beyond belief.

We came to the pyramid,
knowin' the ice was too thick.
So we hired a foreign kid,
but he soon fell too sick.

Soon we cracked the wall,
with our sickles in our hands,
as we made the final call,
we trotted through the sands.

We made it quite a ways in,
but soon he did fall too ill.
He was just to cold and thin,
and he could hardly stay still.

So then I took my fortune,
quickly dragging him back.
Our heist had been uncommon,
he didn't like his empty sack.

So we took a plane to Iceland,
wanting to find some mansion.
Instead we found a crime band,
dangerous ones, findin' tension.

We were gonna rob a big house,
on some secluded mountaintop,
so we went and the rich did rouse.
We took a lot, and started to stop.

So we ran to the this giant rock,
with the pigs in quick pursuit,
I wanted to fly away as a hawk,
or maybe dash away as a neut.

The police threw in the towel,
but we still hid by a boulder.
The others ran away to Powell,
but not checkin' their shoulders.

So they got caught downtown,
and now we're back to start.
Maybe I'll still stay a round,
but this time I'm gonna try art.







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