They get on with life as a blamet,
They're a clever kinda type.
They like blaming on Sundays,
They like telling lies with the sea waves,
They like to contemplate guns.
But when they start to daydream,
Their mind turns straight to crime.

Sometimes I look at them and I look into their eyes,
I notice the way they think about crime with a smile,
Curved lips they just can't disguise.
But they think it's blaming making their life worthwhile.
Why is it so hard for them to decide which they love more?
                                                           -Ak_aiman