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Your poetry needs a pimp to get its ass to the streets, to make it work that shit. What, you thought you could write something good and it would just get read? Well not here, not now, no way. There’s a long list of players you’ve got to play. You better perfume that shit, paint it up and shorten that skirt, get it out there in the scene and make it flirt with all the happening scensters, the king-turd, poetry freakers. Yeah, your poetry needs a pimp to make its ass look good with stiletto heels, to teach it the truth of it’s all about how it makes the fat-cats feel. You’ve got to put your name in their mouths, slide it around until it drips from their lips and they can’t help but pass it on. Your poetry needs a thong So that it will peak out from its hot-pants when it bends over to shake that ass, ‘cause in this hood there are asses everywhere, strutting their shit just like you, willing to do whatever it takes to get that break. That’s the reality, the break down, the truth-self-evident. So if you want to keep it real- your poetry needs a pimp Post a comment in response: |
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