McMansions filthy with McMansions, ticky tacky afterlife, as above below, hermetic practice, I savvy that. Need G*d like chronic, not at all, I'm already off the planet. He and I lock eyes, laughing at the McMansions filthy with McMansions, ticky tacky afterlife, as above below, hermetic practice, I savvy that. Need G*d like chronic, not at all, I'm already off the planet. He and I lock eyes, laughing at the madness of it all. At the start, He dropped me here to lodge Stalin apologic in these sonnets, pass em off to foreign label A&Rs as primers on speaking Ebonics. This luxury rap, accursed tranche crafted for pockets far deeper than mine, can't buy time… but maybe Timing, and proper etiquette toward rhyming slurs at ends of blurry lines oldheads hurry to deny like illegitimate child, running, crying "I got mine like back in '79, got big bank like Cas didn't, the rest can fly." House dumb big, it got rooms within rooms. Each lead to new McMansion, ticky tacky tombs. Each one basic, but, face it, they fuckin yuge. This one dun even get used. Stars & garters for a starving artist, what a bargain. Only heart to barter for part of the harvest. Cut the center out of this plowshare, and there you have the sharpest harp frame to play truly out. Word to Mao. Wanna yank the cap off & still sell it for profit. Often poster as an immortal prophet, peep the technique, shit is obnoxious. I copped this conceit off a bootsie ass daddy down in Baja. Ha ha. Clever cheddar getter, benevolent cheddar spreader, Mansa Musa your super-Saharan sector like blah-blah. Ill trill kill-at-will etceterecollector, slang neologs just for the pleasure of it, like caca. Usually fancy my chain dookie, looter cut through it with the Ruger fire. That's a smooth move, b, like doodoo. Keep everything redundant. Happen once as tragedy, happen once again as more tragedy like McMansions filthy with McMansions filthy with McMansions filthy with McMansions filthy with McMansions filthy with... House dumb big, it got rooms within rooms. Each lead to new McMansion, ticky tacky tombs. Each one basic, but, face it, they fuckin yuge.

Attending shooters by the grimy windows, pad and a pencil, doubting how they know which blurry face the victims'. No difference. I've already retreated into fiction. Constant muzzle flash keep pages lit, it's a win-win. Nicotine dinner with a black coffee aperitif. Outta my mind, I stay out of these streets. Where could I be? Keeping hidden between these hammer slams, planning magnum opus: Bumping random Godsmack track and "God's Plan" off the same amp. Pipe it in until my fucked up teeth do running man plus raindance off my jaw, make it rain wherever they land, no capital, just spit stringing into all lowercase vocables spelled best-guess onomatopoeic, no hopeful tones. Drone, spin code to keep the inner demon sleeping. Dribble rote to keep the demons at the window creeping. I don't wanna believe it, hope they don't believe it neither, but we might need each other. Rhyming with no reason like not here for a long time, not here for a good time. Nothing on the inside, nothing on the outside. Whittington ringing doorbell. From behind the door, two shells. Got shot in the face, shooter ain't caught a case, true veep shit. Cheney was nodding, jaw dropped, dribbling vomit on a pizza. Kept Moss on his rocks, claw it off, bell beeping like alarm. Who's trying to drag me to Hell sleeping? The reaper fear his own kin. Later, field medic sews what he reaps. Snitch, stitch, et cet, but so it goes with the stoic sewed up neat. Least Cheney keep raw medicine for relief. He keep it nothing on the inside, nothing on the outside. Not here for a good time, not here for a long time. Nothing on the inside, nothing on the outside. Not here for a good time, not here. Obvious like mulatto god, lil g, best of both Mozart, white light listening, and dark heart. Born with divine privilege, fell from high Olympus. Nevermind struggles with titans prior. Didn't even bring a spark down, let alone fire with em. Footnote in the mythos, but close at hand for deviant cultists. Stand with Hecate and Eros at the pulpit, slurring that good good get you wet and nekkid bullshit. Sex work set you free, above two gates, one blue, one pink, but admit whatever races. Different forced labor camp for aces. Fuck a race revolution that hinges on a fuck. Dunces mutter "keep fucking until we all the same color." That's gametes for peace. Why the fuck ain't that work back in Namibia with Eugen? It's on the tip of my penis. Not here for a long time, not here for a good time. Nothing on the inside, nothing on the outside. Not here for a long time, not here for a good time...