French on the jet, Posty with the red cup, Cardi in the back,
ass clap, racks fat, blue notes stuck to the wall like graffiti—
that’s our scripture, drip painted in gold leaf.
I ink the night with foreign smoke, Rvssian turn the bass to a heartbeat;
she twerk it Morse code, booty dots dash on my lap,
I sign my name across the moon in cursive cocaine,
tell the sky “hold my liquor,” let the stars snort the lane.
Whole crew stained, can’t scrub the glow,
when the feds read the wall all they see is “we told you so.”