We are the disinherited, the misfits, the poor and downtrodden. We quietly buck the social call to normalcy. Family doesn't get it. They always ask "WHY?". "She was so......" ;"He was such a ...."; "they were doing so good before....". And shake heads , cluck tongues, wring hands and lament. As if we were dead. We quit jobs because we don't feel like going anymore. And they treat us like criminals. We quit school because we were old enough to quit and made more money on the hustle than that high school graduate cousin changing grease at Church's. For every dozen of us, there are 12 stories for how we got here. At this table. On this street. We are the exceptions that disprove the rule. Good people lose homes. Eat at Soup Kitchens. Need help to get by. We run the same circuit every day. The limited number of places we can go to escape the heat or cold or rain without being captured and put on limited display at Dougherty County Jail shrinks almost daily. No loitering signs at the HOMELESS Shelter-How cruel is that? Broke-in-America is a crime waiting for a charge. We make some of them cringe. They make assumptions about our character without knowing our names. The nasty look from a lady with a fish on her tag( must be a pisces cuz she aint no christian). The man with a bumper sticker that proclaims his church's name and frowns and speeds past, afraid he'll have to make a christian decision if someone asks him for change. We draw the bile out by just living and refusing to die to make someones morning drive more pleasant or spoiling a kodak moment while going through the park. We are the test of your faith.
"How can you say you love God whom you have never seen, yet hate your brother whom you see everyday?".
Fuck you. I don't bow down to you or anybody else. I'm broke. Why do you care where the money went? Will you give me enough for shelter tonight? Why do you care why I don't have a job? Are you going to give me one? Or do I add yours to the mountain of rejections that I already have? Fuck You. I see the world you live in, the fear you drink like water and piss on those around you stinking the planet up with the stench of fright. Misery loves company and we leave you lonely. you hate to see us laugh you think we know what you do not. We make you paranoid. Why would we opt to live outside of your zoo? And collect cans and scrap iron. Work day labor and sell blood and clean houses when we could go to work like you and be too afraid to lose a job to stand up like a free human being in the face of some one's shit. Puppet. Dance Shine Dance. Run that race like a hamster in a wheel in a cage. Indulge yourself in that madness of contributing to the maintenance of a machine that is designed to kill you. Do death row inmates plait nooses for the state? No right no wrong just venting because sister Sandra is dead. We met on the track. We laughed and smiled. I liked her a lot and I will miss her.
RIP Grandma Dynamite aka Sandra Williams
peace and
Power to the people
Showing posts with label Ethereal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ethereal. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Ether idge knight
Never knew the man but he speaks to me across the decades like we shared coffee this morning or broke bread last night. X con like me. Junkie like me. Pulls the humanity from the street and makes the truth ring like church bells on sunday.
Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane
by Etheridge Knight
Hard Rock / was / "known not to take no shit
From nobody," and he had the scars to prove it:
Split purple lips, lumbed ears, welts above
His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut
Across his temple and plowed through a thick
Canopy of kinky hair.
The WORD / was / that Hard Rock wasn't a mean nigger
Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head,
Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity
Through the rest. When they brought Hard Rock back,
Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose,
Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status.
And we all waited and watched, like a herd of sheep,
To see if the WORD was true.
As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak
Of his exploits: "Man, the last time, it took eight
Screws to put him in the Hole." "Yeah, remember when he
Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?" "He set
The record for time in the Hole--67 straight days!"
"Ol Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy nigger."
And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had once bit
A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphilitic spit.
The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was really tame.
A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch
And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock
From before shook him down and barked in his face.
And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned and looked silly,
His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence.
And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock
Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name,
We told ourselves that he had just wised up,
Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves for long,
And we turned away, our eyes on the ground. Crushed.
He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things
We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do,
The fears of years, like a biting whip,
Had cut deep bloody grooves
Across our backs.
From The Essential Etheridge Knight, by Etheridge Knight, © 1986. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15261. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.
The Idea of Ancestry
by Etheridge Knight
1Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-
fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare
across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know
their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style,
they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me;
they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.
I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,
1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),
and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece
(she sends me letters in large block print, and
her picture is the only one that smiles at me).
I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,
and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took
off and caught a freight (they say). He's discussed each year
when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in
the clan, he is an empty space. My father's mother, who is 93
and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody's birth dates
(and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no
place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown."
2Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown
hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric
messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr/like a salmon quitting
the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birth stream/I
hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my pocket and a
monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks.
I walked barefooted in my grandmother's backyard/I smelled the
old
land and the woods/I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the
men/
I flirted with the women/I had a ball till the caps ran out
and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother
and split/my guts were screaming for junk/but I was almost
contented/I had almost caught up with me.
(The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker's crib for a fix.)
This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when
the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk
and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them,
they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children
to float in the space between.
From The Essential Etheridge Knight by Etheridge Knight © 1986. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15261. Used by permission of the University
of Pittsburgh Press.
As You Leave Me
Shiny record albums scattered over
the living room floor, reflecting light
from the lamp, sharp reflections that hurt
my eyes as I watch you, squatting among the platters,
the beer foam making mustaches on your lips.
And, too,
the shadows on your cheeks from your long lashes
fascinate me--almost as much as the dimples
in your cheeks, your arms and your legs.
You
hum along with Mathis--how you love Mathis!
with his burnished hair and quicksilver voice that
dances
among the stars and whirls through canyons
like windblown snow, sometimes I think that Mathis
could take you from me if you could be complete
without me. I glance at my watch. It is now time.
You rise,
silently, and to the bedroom and the paint,
on the lips red, on the eyes black,
and I lean in the doorway and smoke, and see you
grow old before my eyes, and smoke, why do you
chatter while you dress? and smile when you grab
your large leather purse? don't you know that when
you leave me
I walk to the window and watch you? and light
a reefer as I watch you? and I die as I watch you
disappear in the dark streets
to whistle and smile at the johns
Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane
by Etheridge Knight
Hard Rock / was / "known not to take no shit
From nobody," and he had the scars to prove it:
Split purple lips, lumbed ears, welts above
His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut
Across his temple and plowed through a thick
Canopy of kinky hair.
The WORD / was / that Hard Rock wasn't a mean nigger
Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head,
Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity
Through the rest. When they brought Hard Rock back,
Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose,
Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status.
And we all waited and watched, like a herd of sheep,
To see if the WORD was true.
As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak
Of his exploits: "Man, the last time, it took eight
Screws to put him in the Hole." "Yeah, remember when he
Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?" "He set
The record for time in the Hole--67 straight days!"
"Ol Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy nigger."
And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had once bit
A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphilitic spit.
The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was really tame.
A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch
And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock
From before shook him down and barked in his face.
And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned and looked silly,
His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence.
And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock
Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name,
We told ourselves that he had just wised up,
Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves for long,
And we turned away, our eyes on the ground. Crushed.
He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things
We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do,
The fears of years, like a biting whip,
Had cut deep bloody grooves
Across our backs.
From The Essential Etheridge Knight, by Etheridge Knight, © 1986. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15261. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.
The Idea of Ancestry
by Etheridge Knight
1Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-
fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare
across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know
their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style,
they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me;
they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.
I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,
1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),
and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece
(she sends me letters in large block print, and
her picture is the only one that smiles at me).
I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,
and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took
off and caught a freight (they say). He's discussed each year
when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in
the clan, he is an empty space. My father's mother, who is 93
and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody's birth dates
(and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no
place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown."
2Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown
hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric
messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr/like a salmon quitting
the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birth stream/I
hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my pocket and a
monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks.
I walked barefooted in my grandmother's backyard/I smelled the
old
land and the woods/I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the
men/
I flirted with the women/I had a ball till the caps ran out
and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother
and split/my guts were screaming for junk/but I was almost
contented/I had almost caught up with me.
(The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker's crib for a fix.)
This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when
the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk
and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them,
they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children
to float in the space between.
From The Essential Etheridge Knight by Etheridge Knight © 1986. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15261. Used by permission of the University
of Pittsburgh Press.
As You Leave Me
Shiny record albums scattered over
the living room floor, reflecting light
from the lamp, sharp reflections that hurt
my eyes as I watch you, squatting among the platters,
the beer foam making mustaches on your lips.
And, too,
the shadows on your cheeks from your long lashes
fascinate me--almost as much as the dimples
in your cheeks, your arms and your legs.
You
hum along with Mathis--how you love Mathis!
with his burnished hair and quicksilver voice that
dances
among the stars and whirls through canyons
like windblown snow, sometimes I think that Mathis
could take you from me if you could be complete
without me. I glance at my watch. It is now time.
You rise,
silently, and to the bedroom and the paint,
on the lips red, on the eyes black,
and I lean in the doorway and smoke, and see you
grow old before my eyes, and smoke, why do you
chatter while you dress? and smile when you grab
your large leather purse? don't you know that when
you leave me
I walk to the window and watch you? and light
a reefer as I watch you? and I die as I watch you
disappear in the dark streets
to whistle and smile at the johns
Monday, February 18, 2008
No Time
Before he heads to the bus station to build and trap flies, my man D (Darius) drops a jewl that makes me laugh because its so true. We were snatching from the ethers downtown when a cat fresh out of jail comes to cry on our shoulders, well not on our shoulders but he did shed some real tears. He loves his woman and she loves him, but she is bi-polar and has a cyst on the brain and has had him on a roller coaster ride for the last year of the three they've been together. In jail and out of jail and back to jail again always because of her drama he says. Fucked up a job paying 1200 a week. Supporting her various habits through petty crime. Beating up men that she sends mixed signals to. Taking beatings from men she sends mixed signals to. "I just don't know what to do", he says. D just shrugs and says"leave the bitch". There's a big ass asteroid headed this way right now and aint no time for the bullshit."
Truer words have seldom been spoken. There is a big asteroid headed this way and if something doesn't happen, then we're all fittin to see whose been right or wrong. Streets made of gold, crystal cities, valhalla and endless war 70 veiled virgins and a case of viagra. whatever your idea of the afterlife is. I imagine that if one polled the nation you would see very few responses along the lines of "Oh yeah, I'm definitely going to the lake of fire" or "I'm pretty sure it's gonna be hell". No one really believes that because that would ruin the whole purpose of the threat of everlasting punishment. Hell would not be Hell if it was your destination. There is something wrong with a scenario in which a true believer sees hell coming. There are too many ways to get out of it. Too many last minute confessions of faith. Deathbed conversions .Last rites etc... Always an out. Always a trap door to escape the clutches of Justice.
If you are a true believer in a living God ( and I don't mean a regular church/temple/masjid attendee), then you have to believe that there is a payoff for not killing the lady in front of you at Harveys that brings 12 items to the 10 item express line or stealing for the helluvit, sleeping with your brothers wife etc... Why fight the instinct without the reward? Deeper Still, the payoff should be greater than pleasure/relief obtained from staying one's hand from sin. Otherwise "mere anarchy is loosed upon the world".
No Time is closing in on us. 2000 years ago John relayed the words of the Ancient of Days and they were "Surely I come quickly". Is he riding the Asteroid?
Truer words have seldom been spoken. There is a big asteroid headed this way and if something doesn't happen, then we're all fittin to see whose been right or wrong. Streets made of gold, crystal cities, valhalla and endless war 70 veiled virgins and a case of viagra. whatever your idea of the afterlife is. I imagine that if one polled the nation you would see very few responses along the lines of "Oh yeah, I'm definitely going to the lake of fire" or "I'm pretty sure it's gonna be hell". No one really believes that because that would ruin the whole purpose of the threat of everlasting punishment. Hell would not be Hell if it was your destination. There is something wrong with a scenario in which a true believer sees hell coming. There are too many ways to get out of it. Too many last minute confessions of faith. Deathbed conversions .Last rites etc... Always an out. Always a trap door to escape the clutches of Justice.
If you are a true believer in a living God ( and I don't mean a regular church/temple/masjid attendee), then you have to believe that there is a payoff for not killing the lady in front of you at Harveys that brings 12 items to the 10 item express line or stealing for the helluvit, sleeping with your brothers wife etc... Why fight the instinct without the reward? Deeper Still, the payoff should be greater than pleasure/relief obtained from staying one's hand from sin. Otherwise "mere anarchy is loosed upon the world".
No Time is closing in on us. 2000 years ago John relayed the words of the Ancient of Days and they were "Surely I come quickly". Is he riding the Asteroid?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
that rough beast
The mortar is dry and
flaking in the seam of the walls of this cell and
I have gazed upon it
absentmindedly for most of a cosmic year now,
staring,
flicking with
cracked and blackened fingernails
Twitching
from
time to time with
other things than freedom
on a mind
aswim in the ethereal sea.
There is light behind the seam
There is life behind these walls
There is death beyond these gates
for whom?
for all.
My time is come
I thrust my arms from the concrete floor pushing my body
skyward for only a couple of feet yet
I knock my head on
heavens door.
Rising and rising
tapping
knocking
banging on
heavens door
One more set and I push
then let myself down
my arms swell
my shoulders swell and I push like
The tower in
Babel The Gateway of El the Most High
Babel where I first rose
Where I first Pushed
then fell like a
prince
Language confused by the whispering Jinn
but no more
I've forsaken speech in these grab bag tongues and
Close my ears forever
I come again
I am pure thought devoid of word
Pure of Deed
I am shiva
the destroyer
I come
To lay waste to the land
To bring fire to the land
To prepare the land
I am ready to build again
flaking in the seam of the walls of this cell and
I have gazed upon it
absentmindedly for most of a cosmic year now,
staring,
flicking with
cracked and blackened fingernails
Twitching
from
time to time with
other things than freedom
on a mind
aswim in the ethereal sea.
There is light behind the seam
There is life behind these walls
There is death beyond these gates
for whom?
for all.
My time is come
I thrust my arms from the concrete floor pushing my body
skyward for only a couple of feet yet
I knock my head on
heavens door.
Rising and rising
tapping
knocking
banging on
heavens door
One more set and I push
then let myself down
my arms swell
my shoulders swell and I push like
The tower in
Babel The Gateway of El the Most High
Babel where I first rose
Where I first Pushed
then fell like a
prince
Language confused by the whispering Jinn
but no more
I've forsaken speech in these grab bag tongues and
Close my ears forever
I come again
I am pure thought devoid of word
Pure of Deed
I am shiva
the destroyer
I come
To lay waste to the land
To bring fire to the land
To prepare the land
I am ready to build again
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
I'm uninspired yet obligated to steal SOMETHING to feed the tribe. Here. Enjoy.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Yeats
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Yeats
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Lousy Black Poetry/ My Poetry Month
As we approach the official celebration of MLKs birthday (Must you government employees use EVERY excuse for a 3 day weekend? Hell you're a week late!) It occurs to me that I should say something about the state of Black Poetry that I've seen lately. Shit Sucks. That's pretty much it, but at the risk of beating a dead horse, I'll just say that much of it sounds derivative.
Scene: Somebody's mommas basement
"Ohhh shnappp, that shit sound like Saul Williams, Black! Lemme hear it again.!"
Aaight G, "I stand on the corner of the block slinging kryptonite rocks". Pay me nigga!
Saul aint even on that shit no more. He did what I do, He snatched it out the Ethers and put it out. That's what Poetry and all good writing or sensual communication is, rising through the Ether Plane and bringing back prizes to share with the tribe. Imitating Saul from 5 years ago is like tearing a picture of Romare Beardens work from a magazine and coloring over the greens with blue crayon. And calling it yours.
So with this in mind I declare January (The month of Janus, Roman God of Doorways and Halls and... Janitors. I shit you NOT) National er regional er Personal bring back good poetry month. I recommend Etheridge Knights Hardrock Returns and when you're little sister sleeps around for money and Watching you to start. Also Don L Lee (not that Haki Madhupuwhatever) , Queen G Brooks Sonia Sanchez Amiri Baraka/Leroi Jones (either name, but Leroi is easier to understand) and whoever else floats you're boat. Good Poetry is like Cheesecake or Pecan Pie, You don't want it every day but when you get some you always want more.
I was gonna publish my personal stuff, a daily dose of me, right?, But I can't seem to find the current owner of the hard drive I was using while I had that goodass job in Chapel Hill that I got fired from because of racism- well Okay, I stole some money but it was green and I was black and you know how white folks in blue heaven get when you get between them and their green... Heyyyy,,,,,,,,there's a poem in there somewhere!
Anyway, I'll try to bring some Ethermail as soon as I get back from the next trip. Peace and love-Power to the People
Scene: Somebody's mommas basement
"Ohhh shnappp, that shit sound like Saul Williams, Black! Lemme hear it again.!"
Aaight G, "I stand on the corner of the block slinging kryptonite rocks". Pay me nigga!
Saul aint even on that shit no more. He did what I do, He snatched it out the Ethers and put it out. That's what Poetry and all good writing or sensual communication is, rising through the Ether Plane and bringing back prizes to share with the tribe. Imitating Saul from 5 years ago is like tearing a picture of Romare Beardens work from a magazine and coloring over the greens with blue crayon. And calling it yours.
So with this in mind I declare January (The month of Janus, Roman God of Doorways and Halls and... Janitors. I shit you NOT) National er regional er Personal bring back good poetry month. I recommend Etheridge Knights Hardrock Returns and when you're little sister sleeps around for money and Watching you to start. Also Don L Lee (not that Haki Madhupuwhatever) , Queen G Brooks Sonia Sanchez Amiri Baraka/Leroi Jones (either name, but Leroi is easier to understand) and whoever else floats you're boat. Good Poetry is like Cheesecake or Pecan Pie, You don't want it every day but when you get some you always want more.
I was gonna publish my personal stuff, a daily dose of me, right?, But I can't seem to find the current owner of the hard drive I was using while I had that goodass job in Chapel Hill that I got fired from because of racism- well Okay, I stole some money but it was green and I was black and you know how white folks in blue heaven get when you get between them and their green... Heyyyy,,,,,,,,there's a poem in there somewhere!
Anyway, I'll try to bring some Ethermail as soon as I get back from the next trip. Peace and love-Power to the People
Monday, January 14, 2008
I remember
I remember a slight sweet film of sweat on your top lip that I licked and your smile as you leaned and melted off of space mountain the cat chewing the last bit of canary yellow sundress with sandals black wispy hair and a grin that was bursting at the seams "like", your favorite word and "y'know", your contraction of choice and I I and I mesmerized in the glow of connecting soul Hustlers Holiday hohoho But we were both cheating on christina aguilera and I knew it could never last night came too fast and hunger came too strong for junkie fantasies of huxtable life so I see you sometimes on the streets on passing on your way around the way on the grind on up the block to the northsoutheast side to meet this sugar daddy or that mark and we nod when your pimps got his back turned and I see a hint of that smile and the canary feather hanging from your chin |
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Hell Mary
Hail Mary full of Grace
Blessed be the fruit of thy womb
Hell Mary
Montell says there's a
99% chance that
HE aint the
Baby Daddy
On cue from the teleprompt the
mob chants
WHORE WHORE WHORE as if on loan from a play-off game
Joe the cuckolded carpenter stands up
Security wrestles him to the floor
Vito whispers in his ear
punks jump up to get beat down
Vito winks at Mary
She smiles beautifully
beatifically
Mone Lisa on a morphine drip
The mob is ecstatic
Music is cued and they go on a commercial break
When the show resumes Mary and Joe are gone and an undercover
Transvestite squirms in his/her seat
I have a secret to tell my fiancee. There is a
Cross of gold on her neck
and she genuflects as they bring in the clueless
lover.
There is a lid on the world about ceiling high
above which my prayers cannot rise
Pray for us now and in the hour of our death
did I lose my connect
or am I on tree in the forest status now
and in the hour of my death
will HE swing down sweet chariot style
or will I be alone as I am now
Will I float toward the light or
Fade to Black
Blessed be the fruit of thy womb
Hell Mary
Montell says there's a
99% chance that
HE aint the
Baby Daddy
On cue from the teleprompt the
mob chants
WHORE WHORE WHORE as if on loan from a play-off game
Joe the cuckolded carpenter stands up
Security wrestles him to the floor
Vito whispers in his ear
punks jump up to get beat down
Vito winks at Mary
She smiles beautifully
beatifically
Mone Lisa on a morphine drip
The mob is ecstatic
Music is cued and they go on a commercial break
When the show resumes Mary and Joe are gone and an undercover
Transvestite squirms in his/her seat
I have a secret to tell my fiancee. There is a
Cross of gold on her neck
and she genuflects as they bring in the clueless
lover.
There is a lid on the world about ceiling high
above which my prayers cannot rise
Pray for us now and in the hour of our death
did I lose my connect
or am I on tree in the forest status now
and in the hour of my death
will HE swing down sweet chariot style
or will I be alone as I am now
Will I float toward the light or
Fade to Black
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