(To really appreciate this I think you need to know me or have familiarity with my "body of work".)



Cold muffin stumps rest far behind the display, in-jest with love I’ve played a game of faux-detest, disgracing your baking always/
Up front’s where we’ve traded, your coal, mine lumps, consistently bypassing brains/
Window shoppers must deny the way in which they’ve behaved/
Celebrating my emo-rap, hunk-o-crap, non-fiction fission vision; Aka: story-telling slump—a recoiling shame/

Navigating a tattered hero-map, sunken back, wishing I hadn’t sketched the image of a whorey, rebelling drunk/
Driver, dumping and trucking away, when it was me who drove Shanny away on the seventeenth day of January/
Writer’s block a key, reason for trying to smite the biggest lock on my being that there ever may be/
Blatantly making me seem more saline than the sea/
Depicting a friction, the coefficient which I would upgrade, after I saw to it our roads be repaved/
See, it wasn’t she who messed up so much, he forced her out early into that Nestle Crunch/
So then maybe a victim twice after the lamentable night some poor troubled souls finally held some ends right/
Handed back-slap lacked tact, I’d never intentionally sever; I need you as a friend, all right?/
Left, etcetera etcetera. . . embellished Kenosha lonesome fueled a boring flame-retardant forest fire for a self-regarding knife fight/
But on the right nights the Lord flies by to gather all the garbage/
Sanitation sanctioned with the will God gives it, collecting the refuse I cognitively refuse to part with/
Always harboring, but in the next dream don’t be shocked if I strut, I’m gleaming after His spring cleaning/
Up shop Mom and Pop got a spiffy Swiffer wet mop/
Spent plenty to pedal for shekels, their evil muffin tops/
‘Em all, flip the notion, save your emotion and see it clear at last/
Nothing from the head-up, thinks with the middle and just looks like an ass/
So don’t point fingers, some pain will linger, I don’t figure on being crude or crass/
But it’s the first thing on my mind, though I try to keep it back in line/
Little kids run up fast, I’m a light hue-man but it’s tough to allude the past/
That’s all, I’m sending a capitol letter tomorrow in the mail, LS signs: sorrowful male/

Fin