Sunday, November 15, 2015

7449. AS I WRITE...

As I write as a philosopher, I lie  - 
and the only need there really is 
is to learn rightly how to die. The
rest is balderdash, conjecture. My
friend the monster from South LA
is once again holding his book. He 
grabs it like a rapper grabs his crotch.
He's got an all encumbered parade-
baton between his hairy legs. There's 
simply nothing else to make this ape 
a man; and size alone will never do.
If he ever had children, they were babies
who died  - for I've never seen a trace of
anything to prove the same. He needs a
woman in front of that screen. Ah, yes, 
that should make him scream. Allay no 
fears, and throw out no hunches,
for he's alone in every way.

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