Poetry thread - Page 3
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Fulgrim
United States560 Posts
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Piy
Scotland3152 Posts
http://www.nothing-new.com/poetry/howl(1).htm Honestly, I rate Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan very highly these days. Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail we ducked inside the doorways as thunder went crashing. + Show Spoiler + http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLq7Aqd_H7g http://www.myvideo.de/watch/3474797/Chimes_of_freedom_1964 Then It's alright ma im only bleeding, which has the line "he not busy being born is busy dying". The meter in his songs is difficult to replicate in written verse because the songs have natural rhythm, but this comes pretty close: + Show Spoiler + Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918. 12. The Windhover To Christ our Lord I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion. | ||
Pixilated
United States82 Posts
So about the comments on Dante being boring: I'm an atheist too, but I absolutely loved Inferno. Really powerful imagery in that text, sooo immersive. Pretty much every pre-modern text is absolutely seeped in religious imagery/thought/etc. You gotta realize, basically everyone in the west was Christian (of some denomination) in those times. So naturally, their writing will reflect that. Doesn't mean you can't enjoy how great their writing is! And @AMaidensWrath, that was a great song, thanks for sharing that! Oh and for the folks that aren't too terribly into poetry yet and maybe don't quite see the appeal (much like myself back in high school), here's a really fantastic TED talk from a poet and poetry educator named Sarah Kay about how poetry has affected and shaped her life and the lives of her students. She even reads a couple of her favorites during the talk; very powerful stuff. http://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_kay_if_i_should_have_a_daughter.html Edit: spelling/grammar | ||
Clamev
Germany498 Posts
I absolutely adore his writing. | ||
Fiercegore
United States294 Posts
At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death 5 When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. 10 I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep 15 Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death 20 At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. Alan Seeger. My favorite poem And this is Andrea Dorfman | ||
oo inflame oo
United States286 Posts
My favorite has been: My Heart I’m not going to cry all the time nor shall I laugh all the time, I don’t prefer one “strain” to another. I’d have the immediacy of a bad movie, not just a sleeper, but also the big, overproduced first-run kind. I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar. And if some aficionado of my mess says “That’s not like Frank!”, all to the good! I don’t wear brown and grey suits all the time, do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera, often. I want my feet to be bare, I want my face to be shaven, and my heart— you can’t plan on the heart, but the better part of it, my poetry, is open. -Frank O’Hara | ||
Dyme
Germany523 Posts
Dich will ich loben: Häßliches, du hast so was Verläßliches. Das Schöne schwindet, scheidet, flieht - fast tut es weh, wenn man es sieht. Wer Schönes anschaut, spürt die Zeit, und Zeit meint stets: Bald ist's soweit. Das Schöne gibt uns Grund zur Trauer. Das Häßliche erfreut durch Dauer. I'd post an English poem, but my sense for English poetry can't exceed this level: There once was a young man from Brighton Who thought he'd at last found a tight one He said, "O my love! It fits like a glove!" Said she, "You're not in the right one." Seriously though, English poetry just doesn't work for me. It's the internet and business language. English is such a heartless, emotion-free language. I guess poetry ownly works with your native language. English is too efficient/easy/stupid. And any time it is not, I don't understand it. | ||
UKISS
United States29 Posts
A bunch of stuff I wrote a while ago. | ||
Stereotype
United States136 Posts
+ Show Spoiler + Mistah Kurtz -- he dead. A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer -- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. Perhaps one of the most quoted stanzas in poetry (especially of Eliot's work, though) is the final stanza. So powerful and expressive. | ||
Nevuk
United States16280 Posts
On April 17 2011 04:10 AMaidensWrath wrote: It seems to me that being an atheist is a rather odd reason for being bored of Dante's Divine Comedy. The plot may take place in places such as hell and purgatory. But that's not to be taken literally. Even back then, no one did so. Even the Roman poet Lucretius stated once: Atque ea ni mirum quae cumque Acherunte profundo prodita sunt esse, in vita sunt omnia nobis. Roughly translated it means: Whatever they say about the souls in the depths of hell, that is happening right here in our live. But that's a common misconception. People tend to think that modern literature needs a reader that is able to read between the lines, while every opus before the 20th century is dull, dead an to be taken literally. Pick the Divine Comedy up once again and maybe read some postfaces with it. Learn to read between the lines! It's not important where these people are tortured and that they are tortured. It's extremely interesting to know who these people are! And the way that they are tortured often tells you what they have done wrong in their lives. Just think about it: It wouldn't be deemed as a masterpiece if it's just about people being tortured in different ways for 300 pages, would it? I can't name a single poet I respect who deems the inferno a masterpiece. But then, I stuck far more to contemporary postmodern poetry which DOES have a loathing for the classics. edit : That was too harsh. I'm not trying to discourage people from reading the inferno, just stating that it did nothing for me in any way whatsoever. The Divine Comedy is IMPORTANT to literature. One of the most influential poems ever written - but so was Beowulf, and I rarely see people arguing that it was good. I much prefer Milton's Paradise Lost to the Divine Comedy, but it may also be because I've never read the divine comedy in the original italian that I don't really appreciate it, I'm a super sound/phonetics focused person and the english translation I've read did nothing for me - this is a much more accurate statement on it. I've read the Divine Comedy three times and studied it in four college classes - if anything I've been overexposed to it. In english. | ||
Justifer
107 Posts
Sorry I couldn't find it on the internet when I searched for it so no link On April 17 2011 10:24 Dyme wrote: Seriously though, English poetry just doesn't work for me. It's the internet and business language. English is such a heartless, emotion-free language. I guess poetry ownly works with your native language. English is too efficient/easy/stupid. And any time it is not, I don't understand it. So your saying there isn't any good English poets out there? I guess Shakespeare is a bad poet to some people. His sonnets are some of the most touching and well respected pieces of poetry out there, but since its an emotion-free language i guess they must be bad. | ||
jon arbuckle
Canada443 Posts
On April 17 2011 10:03 oo inflame oo wrote: My honors literature class has us memorize a poem to recite every week. My favorite has been: My Heart I’m not going to cry all the time nor shall I laugh all the time, I don’t prefer one “strain” to another. I’d have the immediacy of a bad movie, not just a sleeper, but also the big, overproduced first-run kind. I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar. And if some aficionado of my mess says “That’s not like Frank!”, all to the good! I don’t wear brown and grey suits all the time, do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera, often. I want my feet to be bare, I want my face to be shaven, and my heart— you can’t plan on the heart, but the better part of it, my poetry, is open. -Frank O’Hara Ding, ding, ding. One of the best. + Show Spoiler [having a coke with you] + + Show Spoiler [fantasy] + + Show Spoiler [september 14, 1959] + | ||
Scriptix
United States145 Posts
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think. (Lord Byron) I love metaphysical poetry. | ||
Chequemate
Australia4 Posts
I also like small motavational ones like the following: The past is history the future’s a mystery today is a gift that’s why we call it the present. | ||
scribe123456
United States43 Posts
Where The Side Walk Ends + Show Spoiler + There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends. Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout + Show Spoiler + Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would not take the garbage out! She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, Candy the yams and spice the hams, And though her daddy would scream and shout, She simply would not take the garbage out. And so it piled up to the ceilings: Coffee grounds, potato peelings, Brown bananas, rotten peas, Chunks of sour cottage cheese. It filled the can, it covered the floor, It cracked the window and blocked the door With bacon rinds and chicken bones, Drippy ends of ice cream cones, Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, Pizza crusts and withered greens, Soggy beans and tangerines, Crusts of black burned buttered toast, Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . . The garbage rolled on down the hall, It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . . Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Globs of gooey bubble gum, Cellophane from green baloney, Rubbery blubbery macaroni, Peanut butter, caked and dry, Curdled milk and crusts of pie, Moldy melons, dried-up mustard, Eggshells mixed with lemon custard, Cold french fried and rancid meat, Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat. At last the garbage reached so high That it finally touched the sky. And all the neighbors moved away, And none of her friends would come to play. And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said, "OK, I'll take the garbage out!" But then, of course, it was too late. . . The garbage reached across the state, From New York to the Golden Gate. And there, in the garbage she did hate, Poor Sarah met an awful fate, That I cannot now relate Because the hour is much too late. But children, remember Sarah Stout And always take the garbage out! Crocodile’s Toothache + Show Spoiler + The Crocodile Went to the dentist And sat down in the chair, And the dentist said, "Now tell me, sir, Why does it hurt and where?" And the Crocodile said, "I'll tell you the truth, I have a terrible ache in my tooth," And he opened his jaws so wide, so wide, The the dentist, he climbed right inside, And the dentist laughed, "Oh isn't this fun?" As he pulled the teeth out, one by one. And the Crocodile cried, "You're hurting me so! Please put down your pliers and let me go." But the dentist laughed with a Ho Ho Ho, And he said, "I still have twelve to go- Oops, that's the wrong one, I confess, But what's one crocodile's tooth more or less?" Then suddenly, the jaws went SNAP, And the dentist was gone, right off the map, And where he went one could only guess... To North or South or East or West... He left no forwarding address. But what's one dentist, more or less? Lazy Jane + Show Spoiler + he also wrote a lot of great songs, including "a boy name sue" for Johny Cash, but thats a bit off topic. | ||
Eruaphadion
Canada78 Posts
On April 17 2011 10:36 Stereotype wrote: T.S. Eliot's The Hollow Men + Show Spoiler + Mistah Kurtz -- he dead. A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer -- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. Perhaps one of the most quoted stanzas in poetry (especially of Eliot's work, though) is the final stanza. So powerful and expressive. I always loved poetry through high school because I saw each poem as a puzzle of words, something to be dissected, and I loved the feeling of GETTING the poem the first time, after putting some work into it. It wasn't until I read this piece that I realized the true power of poetry. This poem shocked me to my core with words, and words alone. It is my very favorite piece, and thanks to it I have spent many happy(or sad) hours studying the greats. My pick for contribution (this poem is so much fun lol): To his Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell + Show Spoiler + Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day; Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. | ||
Hemula
Russian Federation1849 Posts
On April 17 2011 12:15 jon arbuckle wrote: Ding, ding, ding. One of the best. + Show Spoiler [having a coke with you] + http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDLwivcpFe8 + Show Spoiler [fantasy] + http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9eeqlvlNoM + Show Spoiler [september 14, 1959] + http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOH7E-n5lIs Hey, Frank O'Hara is awesome, I think I don't know english poetry at all, could somebody introduce me to it? Like, a list of the most valuable works or some poems that are on a next level. I see some people posting here shit (pardon my french), so I know that everybody has his own opinion on art, but still there must kind of a criteria, like works recognized by the fair amount of critics as the pieces of art. Please, please share with me. | ||
Klamity
United States994 Posts
On November 09 2011 17:32 Hemula wrote: Hey, Frank O'Hara is awesome, I think I don't know english poetry at all, could somebody introduce me to it? Like, a list of the most valuable works or some poems that are on a next level. I see some people posting here shit (pardon my french), so I know that everybody has his own opinion on art, but still there must kind of a criteria, like works recognized by the fair amount of critics as the pieces of art. Please, please share with me. Frank O'hara is really fantastic. If you're looking for more work by him, check out the New York School poets he is commonly associated with. This link is a good summary on them: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5668 In general, poets.org is a great place to look around for poems. I personally like O'hara the most out of the bunch, but that's also because I've read more of him than anyone else - Lunch Poems is perhaps my favorite collection of poetry. Of the pack, I've also liked most of Ashberry's stuff that I've read, though he far less grounded in urban meanderings than O'hara. I like Ron Padgett and Dean Young (another contemporary often lumped in with them) a lot as well. Billy Collins is widely regarded as the most popular poet in America, as he carries an aesthetic that easily connects to the masses and contains a lot of humor. With him, I don't sense much evolving as a poet - he seems to have plateaued or regressed even, unfortunately. It's hard to identify who the biggest names are in contemporary poetry for several reasons. First, poetry is dying, if not dead, to the masses. Second, it is as you say, extremely subjective. The obvious giants are all dead - Walt Wiltman, William Carlos Williams, Emily Dickinson, W.H. Auden, W.B. Keats, Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, Elizabeth Bishop, Robert Lowell, and even Allen Ginsburg [beats generation]. I came here mainly to post "Having a Coke with You," but since that has been done, here are some of my favorites: Ash Ode by Dean Young When I saw you ahead I ran two blocks shouting your name then realizing it wasn’t you but some alarmed pretender, I went on running, shouting now into the sky, continuing your fame and luster. Since I've been incinerated, I've oft returned to this thought, that all things loved are pursued and never caught, even as you slept beside me you were flying off. At least what's never had can’t be lost, the sieve of self stuck with just some larger chunks, jawbone, wedding ring, a single repeated dream, a lullaby in every elegy, descriptions of the sea written in the desert, your broken umbrella, me claiming I could fix it. The List of Famous Hats by James Tate Napoleon's hat is an obvious choice I guess to list as a famous hat, but that's not the hat I have in mind. That was his hat for show. I am thinking of his private bathing cap, which in all honesty wasn't much different than the one any jerk might buy at a corner drugstore now, except for two minor eccentricities. The first one isn't even funny: Simply it was a white rubber bathing cap, but too small. Napoleon led such a hectic life ever since his childhood, even farther back than that, that he never had a chance to buy a new bathing cap and still as a grown-up--well, he didn't really grow that much, but his head did: He was a pinhead at birth, and he used, until his death really, the same little tiny bathing cap that he was born in, and this meant that later it was very painful to him and gave him many headaches, as if he needed more. So, he had to vaseline his skull like crazy to even get the thing on. The second eccentricity was that it was a tricorn bathing cap. Scholars like to make a lot out of this, and it would be easy to do. My theory is simple-minded to be sure: that beneath his public head there was another head and it was a pyramid or something. Setting the Table by Matthew Harvey To cut through night you'll need your sharpest scissors. Cut around the birch, the bump of the bird nest on its lowest limb. Then with your nail scissors, trim around the baby beaks waiting for worms fall from the sky. Snip around the lip of the mailbox and the pervert's shoe peeking out from behind the Chevy. Before dawn, rip the silhouette from the sky and drag it inside. Frame the long black stripe and hang it in the dining room. Sleep. When you wake, redo the scene as day in doily. Now you have a lacy fence, a huge cherry blossom of a holly bush, a birch sugared with snow. Frame the white version and hang it opposite the black. Get your dinner and eat it between the two scenes. Your food will taste just right. Poem by Alice Notley Why do I want to tell it it was the afternoon of November 15th last fall and I was waiting for it whatever it would be like it was afternoon & raining but it was late afternoon so dark outside my apartment and I was special in that I saw everything through a heightened tear, things seemed dewy, shiny and so I knew there was a cave it was more or less nearby as in my apartment it was blue inside it dark blue like an azure twilight and the gods lived in the cave they who care for you take care of at death and they had cared for Ted and were there for me too and in life even now Poem [Lana Turner has collapsed!] by Frank O'Hara Lana Turner has collapsed! I was trotting along and suddenly it started raining and snowing and you said it was hailing but hailing hits you on the head hard so it was really snowing and raining and I was in such a hurry to meet you but the traffic was acting exactly like the sky and suddenly I see a headline LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED! there is no snow in Hollywood there is no rain in California I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Lana Turner we love you get up | ||
discodancer
United States280 Posts
Choose the sword, and you will join me Choose the ball, and you join your mother... in death You don't understand my words, but you must choose *baby gurgling* So... come boy, choose life or death Verse One: Ghostface Killah The only man I hold wake for Is the sky-blue Bally kid, in eighty-three, rocked Taylor's My Memorex performed tape decks, my own phone sex Watch out for Haiti bitches, I heard they throw hex Yo, Wu whole platoon is filled with rac-coons Corner sittin wine niggaz sippin Apple Boone, this ain't no white cartoon Cuz I be duckin crazy spades The kid hold white shit, like blacks rock ashy legs Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet? Why did Judas rat to Romans while Jesus slept? Stand up You're out of luck like two dogs stuck Iron Man be sippin rum, out of Stanley Cups, unflammable Noriega, aimin knives which stay windy in Chicago spine-tingle, mind boggles Kangols in rainbow colors, promoters try to hold dough Give me mine before Po, wrap you up in so-and-so I ran the Dark Ages, Constantine and great Henry the Eighth Built with Ghengis Khan, the wreck suede wiley Don Verse Two: Killah Priest I judge wisely, as if nothin ever surprise me Loungin, between two pillars of ivory I'm lively, my dome piece, is like buildin stones in Greece my poems are deep from ancient thrones I speak I'm overwhelmed, as my mind, roams the realm My eye's the vision, memory is the film Others act sub-tile, but they fragile above clouds They act wild and couldn't budge a crowd No matter how loud they get, though they growl and spit Clutch they fists, and throw up signs like a Crip And throw all types of fits I leave em split, like ass cheeks and ragged pussy lips Verse Three: The RZA Aiyyo, camoflouge chameleon, ninjas scalin your buildin No time to grab the gun they already got your wife and children A hit was sent, from the President, to raid your residence Because you had secret evidence, and documents On how they raped the continents, and it's the prominent dominant Islamic, Asiatic black hebrew The year two thousand and two, the battle's filled with the Wu Six million devils just died from the Bubonic Flu Or the Ebola Virus, under the reign of King Cyrus You can see the weakness of a man right through his iris Un-loyal snakes get thrown in boilin lakes of hot oil, it boils your skin, chickenheads gettin slim like Olive Oyl, only plant the seed deep inside fertile soil Fortified with essential, vitamin and mineral use the sky for a blanket, stuffin clouds inside my pillow Rollin with the Lands, the tribe's a hundred and forty four thousand chosen Protons Electrons Always Cause Explosions Verse Four: The Genius/GZA (Maximillion) The banks of G, all CREAM downs a vet Money feed good, opposites off the set It ain't hard to see, my seeds need God-degree I got mouths to feed, unnecessary beef is more cows to breed I'm on some tax free shit by any means Whether bound to hit scheme or some counterfeit CREAM I learned much from such with cons who run scams Veterans got the game spiced like hams And from that, sons are born and guns are drawn Clips are fully loaded, and then blood floods the lawn Disciplinary action was a fraction of strength that made me truncate the limp on temp with the stump, treat his hips like air pumps RZA shaped the track, niggaz caught razor bumps Scarred tryin to figure who invented this unprecented, opium-scented, dark-tinted Now watch me blow him out his shoes without clues Cuz I won't hesitate to detonate, I'm short fuse | ||
garlicface
Canada4196 Posts
About me not studying For my last exam | ||
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