(Photo taken in my studio)

March 24, 2019

#AMWriting back to my sax, read the pudding it’s in my facts.

The untouchable negro you regret to ask.

Writing the music to later produce with my sax.

They must’ve got it wrong bout’ TKane bruh…

He wasn’t writing this crap, but like the W4 you signed,

This is my modern day slavery trap.

No jewelry from this land on this man.

Only the countries of oath.

I love you all, though,

I come with an addiction; a word and verbplay conviction.

If you see me, write a toast!

A poet’s W4; a personal tax.

Book one so far gave me a panic attack.

Imagine what’s next with my fuckin’ sax.

Through sound we can tell the energy’s black.

So, let me know.

From the time I was broke, to when I can pull up in my Mfoe.

Running with trouble left and right, be still fucka’s I run to write. 

You’re reading a free man, a loved man. 

A BMW driving black Man.

A Black Man Winning in Life, damn.

A Black Man Writing his future; watch my glam.

Now your eyes stuck, I know when you’re star-struck.

A Black Man Who’s wage’s close to Scrooge McDuck.

I’m not a rapper, people, but an imposter writing wordplay and poetry deeper.

On the run and writing to funds. 

Driving to runs; at Tom McCall Waterfront to sing to the people on my tired stretches of the run.

Crossing our Tilikum, running beside the max killin’ em’…

And here’s my watcher’s oath.

First beacon under the equator.

Sweating to Rigil, body of lies so braver.

Better to please her.

#AmWriting back to your Pink Panther.

Red Rocket where the scary man was.

Watchers know well, not those selling out to protect and dwell. 

But driving to dreams.

#AMWriting back to Brooklyn.

First-class to show up with my Book One.

Just watch, I’ll blow my saxophone soon.

I’ll play to the Booj-Wah-Zee tunes. 

Last, let me tell you about Las Vegas.

It’s a player’s playground; I’ve been up there but first, down.

It was GoDucks baby; this negro been around the real late spree.

Drinking out the bottles, with girls who just stalk dumb.

For the gram’ and stunt.

Bitches. I don’t tip her, but fuck the best of her.

I know a pimper’s fur.

If you don’t know me by now, let me entertain you; I’m a magician.

Was that Budd they talmbout’ driven?

Star risen?

Inspired much before Dekum’s Blue?

Yep. Here I am to read you.

-Budd

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

2 Comment on “Budd’s Soundtrack: Volume III

  1. Pingback: #AmRunning With Music To Write | @VehicleDigest.net

  2. Pingback: It’s A Together Type Thing… | @VehicleDigest.net

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