Wit Dick


I’m a bit of a dick. Don’t care why you’re crying about or think. Someone died? Shit happens, step aside but don’t blink. I refuse to take shit. Even if you’ve got none, split. I’ll assume you do and I don’t want it.

I like your girl. That stupid whore. Eyeballing you ball her eyes. Held up by her thighs, hair dangling all on the floor. It turns me on to watch you nail her to the door. I sneak in when you leave her bolted and bleeding, as if Jesus was a crucified woman who got raped whilst taking beatings. And I feed her my seed. She’s restrained. And she pleads.

I don’t write for you. I write for me, a real OG. Raised rich and white, skin darker than an African field worker at night. Ideas so bright even the shadows run away and out of sight. Privileged as fuck, while you struggle, and it’s alright.

Lines dirtier than smoke from falling towers in the cancer lungs of a coal miner with no time to run.

And this isn’t done because I like it. I hate it. Spit on it and quit. Except I don’t think you’re worth my time so I’d rather waste it on tasteless shit. Garbage rhymes you couldn’t come up with on your best day if you took your time.

Probably have a tiny dick. Can’t tell. There’s a big one hanging where it should’ve been, so, oh well.

Chicks think I have a big dick, though. They see how confident I am in not taking shit. And they’re quick to stand in line for a dick slap.

But bitches suck. They stay on their period thinking their shit is the most serious, but stinks like everyone else’s, how mysterious. And in the toilet it sinks, like the roofie in your girls drink.

My shit floats, though. It has more success in its ten minutes than your best attempts since you’ve been livin’.

But these bitches stop tryin’ when I won’t quit lyin’ to them tryin’ to move them aside so I can continue wastin’ my time.

British gypsy bastard. A walking disaster. The tasteful and catastrophic dread headed “pastor”.

I don’t know what caring is. I’m trying to figure it out by molesting these little kids. But their parents keep complaining and shit instead of explaining it. I quit, I’m leaving this church for good. You’re hit. Take the clerical shirt, jerks! I’m going back to the hood. To my pregnant girlfriend. She starts high school tomorrow and it’s understood I’ll drive her.

Cheat on her with your mom. She’s tied in the cellar with nothing on but a thong and a sweater. She’s a bitch and I tell her. She thinks it’ll get better and I let her. And she wrote some letters I fed her.


I believe in slavery, stay and see, I collect my favorite colors, the ones I don’t want to be. White, pink and red. A single one gets out of hand, they end up dead. Too much money, the government is giving me head.

I get away with whatever the fuck I say because they know I don’t play when I go quiet. They rather I stay loud so they can keep an eye on me.

So anyway.