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Weeble Wobble


Me and my foe foo row ramma.  I dish and you dash and I know I got to go hoe and come on to do all that.  I have no idea.  No clue.  Notta respectability, neither nor all there or even some that.  But still I here while you but there.  And you ever so wanna correct me.  Because you got that standard stick and schtick and a sense that says there must be a sensibility to this sentence, a sentience to this my sentiment.  Might that I entertain?  And might more that you over contextualize this and this and then all more that?  You think you know me, do you?  You think you have the cliff and that ever so brash cleft to find in your own shadow my mingled mo’ matta?  You do not know me. And you sure as hell do not know him, any more than I know that whore of a bastard on 2nd street selling the smell of sunday streets slick with salaried succubus sweaty on her own way to salvaged service.  These are just words.  And still here you are, you who jingle and then jangle like Dylan and his bo’ dangle, a rhymeless tune to a hairless tongue.  I ain’t no nothing and I ain’t more than not these words.  You never will find me here anymore than in there, in your mind and its blind eye that from syntax thinks it snaps shut on semantics and so knows my synapses.  I wanna help you, really I do.  But you ain’t going to understand this, is ya?

 

 

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