Boy, Perfected

Find me at the corner of a prosperous pedantic

And laconic loner, stoner with a gift for the semantics,

Drawn to righteous panic, fighter in a cage

Drawn an exit line, but there are spiders in the maze.

Welcome Wesley Lacson, as he whittles to the bone

Darling of the capital, aspired to the throne

Speak, but watch your tone, these are contents under pressure

I might hit triple platinum before you write a measure.

I’m a fresher type of treasure, I’m a liar to the letter

Set fire to my reign, you better bet I’ll build it better

Record setter, limit tester, Hannibal Lecter, never the lesser

Give me the best and call me blest or ride me out of this town like Westerns.

I’ll rest and let it fester, the cut of another prediction

My diction is the sword, and the story’s far from fiction

I would call the bluff that kills me, the gamble’s my addiction

These demons knocking on the door, test the fight or flight conviction.

My condition, sick as shit, but have the healthy ever spit?

Did Tyson win a title too tired to hit the mitts?

Did Pryor rock the Strip because he forgot to write a bit?

Did Jackson die a legend with someone else writing the hits?

Am I what you expected? Am I a boy, perfected?

Did you believe I only found the path that you set out? Did you suspect

That who you saw and who you heard and who I am were all the same?

I'm just a kid with time to grow, a thorn by any other name.

-W