Hey the last time that we went out, dude it was T-shirt weather. Oh Matt if I can remember, we were all drunk from beer that wasn’t ours—that nobody could pay for. We walked our way out and into the city, our bags full of spray paint. ‘Til those lights and dude the sirens found you, and they found us too. They radioed back “Hey we found Matt’s body, we found his lifeless body.” On Brunots Island, just a mile away from where we stashed paint. We gave good pace out front of the court-room, they saw your unused spray cans. Passed the cops, who were smiles and sighs until the judge said, “It’s a case to discard since young deaths tend to leaves scars.” Though I told him about the bruise on your arm from the cops that grabbed you too hard. Gave it reason, we exaggerated, gave it blame. With the paperwork in front of the judge that couldn’t remember your name. And so on your funerals day, RUPT signed you into MHA. ‘Cause we know that you would have been proud to have that hang on your name.