Fresh off of my newly minted conquest within the industrial sith-lord messianic complex, I was confronted by porch monkey theology seasoned to perfection by a twist of gone with the wind nostalgia
- niggaz don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies -
watching knowingly while my avatar is savagely clunked on the head by the oreo magistrate,
beaten, and lynched in honor of emmett teal, fred hampton, and amado diallo
What wicked manner of evil is black on black soul assassination when carried out with an ivory accomplice and reprobated intentions
ghetto church birds chirpin’ tales of transformation while seeking counsel all day about whose the dopest pastor - dollar, olstein, or long
- shit sister thompson digs the sanctified stylings of peter popoff but if you ask me my eyebrow arch might slap the shit outta you ...
Sorry, I can no longer believe the words you utter,
all will say what they want to get what they need
pearly jibs shinning
and soul pockets filled with violent thoughts of body crevice invasions upon a proudly indoctrinated army of impassioned opiates
- now I'm not trying to shake you fat lil figs outta line, not really trying to service sight to the blind, but I'm persistently pursuing that dream when life is blowing wind up her summer dress with a thong and no panty lines -
vividly translating desire because it seems I'm dangerously ahead of my time
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blessings,
M