I be writing, I be writing, I swear I be writing for the goodie goodies and the baddie baddies taking thirst trap naps with fat backs, staying woke just until their gluteus maximus claps. Perhaps my vivid imagination is the only thing keeping them from stating the facts in all CAPS with no caps about attention hacks trying to be the next Shaq's bowl of Apple Jacks.
That's a mouthful... I'm a handful.
I be talking, I be talking, I swear I be talking to my Gs like H was my next-door neighbor and I feels all of the chills, ills and eels like the opposite of escalators on a Spongebob cartoon, speaking on weasels and I R baboons, hoping that God's coming soon, until then I howl at the moon.
Behind all my ridiculousness is an inability to wild out, because demeaning those around me never gave me any clout. I'm developing some doubt about three strikes and out because I've missed quite a few blessings but I still get to shout.
Does anyone really know what I'm talking about?
For those whispering for ice cream, here's some Play Clothes. I'm thinking of expanding my Legos while wearing "where do they make those" in the city of MAACOs. I double dare Marc Eckos and Joey Grecos to echo my pathos because I've always been faithful.
Black men don't cheat.
... and admittedly, I easily ctrl, alt, delete in the Texas heat with The Thrill on repeat.
I can't recall the last time I asked a girl if she liked drugs, but I always remember the ones who don't believe in love. That's why I stopped selling dreams and made them way more affordable, climbed so many mountains to make them a lot more portable. I'm still going by the book, but it's just way more Audible, akin to a 6th grader screaming "neck" before slapping a friend's clavicle.
I had to chill on Netflix and chill (and the mattress theatrics), so it's back to these headers and footers... who's looking for hat tricks?