The flow changes. The free dies. Making absolute sense of complete nonsense. Another cliche wasted.

Fuck shit. Suck dicks.
Nightly, like Michael Vick,
will after time in prison, sit-in
on a black guy's laps calling him daddy,
feeling the sappy, dick entering the crappy,
macking shit, crapping quick of little boys snick-ers bars
with fast cars and a little sars minding the reason, easing on feasible rhymes,
that are unadulterated in time, feeling fine, at one with the world,
touring birds, murdering kurds, like it was another gulf war,
but with asians guys dying, starting the third world war,
going far in life is looking bleak, staring at the beaks,
of pidgeons and vultures circling creepy
looking for pretty prey, or projects to vibe on,
signing on the certain life's making crying go on.
Never stopping, never typing fast, making past lifes of
little boys minds and crash. I'm crashing, my brains fasting
a four day weekend and break from school, mind's drooling,
refridgerated cooling, feeling like a grocery store.
filled with unused food, that tastes like old poo,
in the pool, with samples of other people's stool.
A nasty combination of wack rappers, and crap back packers,
hustling for a day's work with no reward, making it hurt
that even after spending all day at ward,
that I hadn't got a record deal, or one phone number
from a label exec, or a pretty girl with corn rows and spending time with her in deep slumber.
This is monotonous, making hippopotamuses with diseases making brains fall asleep like lectures about cotton gins,
making collagen, what is that? I don't know head hurts, down more gin.
Its a sin to drink, but if it makes you think, deeply about life and troubles,
its a good tonic, and deserves the hail mary, like a god-fairy,
bringing light to your world, and making sense of fights,
between fathers and sons, not making it right,
but making you sleep and understand it on sight.
A new born baby just died last night.