An ill guhboo

Inspired by the digable planets, yes yes, aware of absolutely everything about this piece, every inch of decency and indecency. White boy shouldn’t have written this, I don’t care much, shit happens, enough now for a little jive.

__

an ill guhboo

Thirty one burnt raisins drying on the wastelands
Bundle it up white man
All the rivers done shivered
All the tykes are moldy ’round the ankles
Bannered and spangled aren’t you suited
Lung-cough pollution firebaby tangled in the roots
The water ran a script
It failed and the fish dipped
Lower than china when the guhboo stomps the razorblades
Crackfoot they call him the locals he molests
Too naphappy sucking from squaw-sac so
He regresses in a cave and cold nights illuminate
The puffpuff of the rough born-again hooligan
Guhboo timid picks lice out his rice
Blonde hair out his ears and war out his eyes
Nuh but blood and coarse force deduct his temper
Ill africa blueskin fade to black
Ill africa mid-whisper and midwestern wimper
Skinny Crackfoot tonguekisses the grub-depressions
Wrote this soliloquy
From the fumes of the nasty echelons, too many ties
Too few men to settle down with wives
Ill africa blueskin bellybloat wiggle kiss the death rattle
Every battle a mountain
On a gold figure-six rich digger’s lap
The mothers lost their lives
Give it freely, pussy, get nappy then mussy
Then figurine ballerine blonde straight milky
Fuss and get beatings if you swallow too much
We desert fillers and grave fillers, walking soils
Too many Armani on that army
Too many flies in my pudding, gunboys and their triggers
Ill africa blueskin bellyflop crackfoot bundle-up
It’s coldest at the valley footie
Where buried the village six lots of looty
I’m married to my pistol hear it shake when it shoots
Armani vultures bound to mister death
See them sweat on this leftist trench
Africa nap classical in its birth fluid and moods
See the baby suck
In the tar little flies mate stuck not knowing the sun comes up
When again the tarline floods
See the crafty monkeymen albinos
Yellow helmets scream I’ll find you diamond
Lying men nothing but the foulest comeuppance
Run and dance in the dry brush
Enough blueskin dead men to fill a blimp and a bucket

Advertisements

~ by Jeremy on August 14, 2008.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: