Sitting alone at night thinking,

Who am I to think to blink,

And,

Where would I go if I couldn’t be alone,

Then,

Like it wasn’t an easy road to take,

When,

Those around momma yelling,

You ain’t,

and.

You couldn’t tell those around you,

To faint,

or

To pass the mash potato plate,

and it took,

Them to scarf down,

What was at last,

My last time telling you,

I’m not gone yell to you,

To

Say grace and split the spell,

But,

You found time to stick your fork,

Where,

Your hunger don’t belong,

So that,

Your prophecy faded,

To be,

Better in Beliz?

No maybe,

This. good. food. won’t. last. for. much,

In a hand sold to hail,

In rain, sleet, ice or snow,

Fake a what,

Did you mean to tell?

A Soviet’s tale,

When you dropped the carton of juice,

And said,

good luck?

To in-grave a rhyme to reason; to manifest a crime to pay back the police,

And?

No brother.

My form,

Was aching to carve a needle,

From the thorn you worn,

Like it wasn’t picked,

To scratch this line,

So your sister dawned on me.

To say to you,

You are never invited back in the space we morn.

La-la’s death.

Since playing Amy Winehouse,

On the stereo,

Espech-ally

Was simply-put needed to make the hunger plate, get tossed around,

From Grandmother to an adopted fawn.

Yeah mon,

Every ting make irie,

When her Malcom X glasses are wrecked,

By the nearest dancing shop to pawn.