Peace Out, Keep the Grease Out:

Words are far from true. They disguise. Wise stain eyes until real is all you need, free from salty cries. This language spoken, only speed bumps the weak for weeks. Years multiply by division of fear postulating theorems we could never speak. WE, the freaks, magical, lucid and fragile. Agile. And they say, "Yeah kid, ya' really figured it all out this time, haven't ya'? Peddling your flocking art through highway streets intergalactic! Tough **** eh... Pandering, shove it in, push it down, sandpaper hard. Oh yeah, yeah, yes kiddo of the hour, stacked and flaccid at the same god damned time. Look at your rhyme big guy, talk of the town, pull my finger, wear the crown, funky clown!" I say: "WHO IS THEM ANYWAY ANY DAY? Wear your prose go man, even if it dampens their day. WHO IS THEM? WHO IS THEY? Keep on that art, words down, write 'em if ya' gottem', and when they don't understand, comprehend, two middle fingers, watch 'em fly sky high, watch 'em pretend, see 'em bend...get yir' gleam, enjoy that grin. Let them do them man, you do you! Art is pure, Art is true, Art is YOU!" One more tid-bit of truth... If skimming through someone's poetry is yir' game, ta' get plays, cop-a-feel steal love for your reel... I say: "Peace out! Keep the grease out! Shift gears, peel. Do something real, or...disappear... like David Copperfield."