Your hands have a gift from a powerful evil:
They hunt-and-peck something very bad and
harmful in your mind, on Facebook. I knew
you then to be soft touch. It was all boo-boo:
I know you now, bitch. You are like Ricky,
my other side and the matriarch of repugnance
and the infernal clothes room. So, bide with her
and work fingers to bone there.
"Let's see each other when you have time,"
said you, bitch. I personally replied, "Can I meet you?"
You gazed at your Facebook in mute hissy fit.
Don't keep the truth hidden from me.
I know your green thumb: there is none.
You lie to yourself every day. And I know you
will until you die with it, your cockamamie idea
about turning dumdum ones into dumdum ones
by you, a dumdum scholastic.
Unfold what you have and let it be barely
visible in how your new kids on block
write and speak their English, shyster.
I know your beau ideals: Professors X, Y, Z.
I think it is your classical fire in belly.
My only bum steer: be verecund always and
show the ropes behind their backs.
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