Mother you want is going to yell at you.
The men who have touched me casually.
You grow, they grow, you grow, & they grow
as the number of flip flops increases worldwide.
The horizon is personal, the horizon is a baggie
Every bureaucratic wonk has a stash somewhere
They place them over the heads of black schoolchildren,
Demanding their first breath is one of hyperventilation.
After the denizens gave so freely to their beloved city,
Gallons of donated blood were eighty-sixed.
Food rotted in the sun & the water bottles broke.
Mother you need is going to yell at you
I know what you want
But you're gonna have to write it down
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