Back when Snoop Lion was Snoop d o double g

[dull boy]

I've got a suburban like stare. That perverted type. Player
in his dad's suburban, searching for twerking white squares.
My serving size scares little Betty bulimic.
I'm Freddy emceeing. Better believe it when I use this machete to cleave with.
Steady diseasing the thesis with clever secretions
from my head. There's no demons screaming. Heavy I'm breathing
in your receiver. Hey, Heather, you see this? I shred your sweater to pieces
with this wood chipper. It looks different than Steve Buscemi's.
You dopes interested in Heaven won't for a second off
-er a second thought to questions I never stop
pressing. It's evident how depressing it's gotten.
I keep checking the clock. Am I really still stressing to watch
my efforts? It's not like I'm in the running for any medals. I've got
medicine drops to administer. Dinner to pepper and chop.
In my head, on the job of letters. I jot
just to steady the constant levee of thoughts
pouring over the ledge of my noggin. And often
it's not legible. Lost it, but still set at the coffee
table and wrangle consonants. Angle assonance,
saying common shit, like, 'I bodied it!' just so the audience
can applaud and get what I'm offering.
Pandering manuscripts. I hammer the handles, just
so amateurs are secure and understand there's a landing strip
we're landing in. Quick, call the ambulance, I'm panicking.
There's a mannequin Santa taking all my Ambien.
I went to Vegas on a family trip and got naked with my Nana, then
raped both my Auntie's with cancer sticks.
I'm ripping the corset at the corners. I'm fixing to force this
smorgasbord of whore to satisfy my hunger pains.
Hunger ain't a game, Jennifer Lawrence. I'll stuff my face
with any of your tits. Won't be skinny no more, if
I dust my plate of all your cunt. Amazed. Your clit is enormous.
My dick is just gorging. 30 minutes of porking
this piggy. Then snorted off her stomach. Drank
out her belly button. She got peanut butter and jelly stuffing.
My phone only rings when someone's trying to sell me something.
I've got no one to talk to, so I keep 'em on the phone as long as possible.
Tell 'em that my girl thinks thongs are optional. That I need to work out my abdominal.
That my snowman's abominable.
Better not fucking tell, slut. I'll get that muzzle weld shut.
Better clutch that held tongue or I'm gonna sell lungs
so you can't run or yell. Plug that busted well. Must
I trouble Ben Stiller for a warm glass of shut the hell up,
for you to hush and quell, dunce? For real, your voice is just raking
across four chalk boards. Fuck, go embroider a blanket.
Roll a joint, or get naked. Cook me some bacon.