Oh I lost it all, that Chinese hedge fund girl—
Yes I lost it all, **** Chinese hedge fund girl.
She done me bad, Lord this oyster lost its pearl...

My hedge fund investor— oh she done me wrong.
Said that hedge funds advisor— Lord she done me wrong.
Closed my accounts; and escaped to Hong Kong...

She took all my money, repossessed my Lexus too.
Stole all my wealth, repossessed my Lexus too.
My levee is broke—know what I have to do...

    Lord she ruined my credit—
    I lost my four homes,
    My trusted bank manager
    Won't approve me no loans—

Summer home in the Hamptons: you know she stole the deed.
Summer cottage in the Hamptons, yes she stole the deed...
Oh that hedge fund manger— I'm gonna make her bleed !

   Going to fly to Hong Kong, Lord I'll hunt that woman down.
   That female funds advisor ain't nothing but a clown;
   I'm going to Kung Pao her Mu Shu, with some poison on the side;
   That Chinese hedge funds manager—Gonna take her for a ride.


Gonna drive to the ocean, dump her body in the sea.
Yes I'll drive to the ocean, throw her body in the sea;
No Chinese hedge fund manager make a monkey out of me...

I'm going back to Newport, gonna polish up my yacht.
Think I'll go back to Newport, shine that finish on my yacht...
Then escape to Bermuda—Lord knows I won't get caught.

Lo, I reign—a dubious ******;
Yawning, gaping, where I bear
A Tree of Life, whose buds now burgeon
Under the target that I wear.

Charity strikes a shocking pose
Displayed upon my regal chair:
A throne where what is hidden shows
Within my book of common prayer.

A Catholic joke both strange and lewd?
Perhaps. Yet still, I make you stare…
Such charity seems rather crude
Considering what I’ve got down there.

Take a harp, go about the city,
You forgotten harlot;
Make sweet melody, sing many songs,
That you may be remembered.
                                    Isaiah 23:16

In the boogie-woogie brothel
The clients enjoy
A devilish syncopation
Wherein ragtime revel
(hops/barley/sugarcane/rye/ginever)
Reveals base barbecue of ******* beats:
Dixieland, jazz blues, doo-***, tinpan cakewalk,
psychobilly, funkafied filth, the Charleston . . .

Smoke-filled music overflows the saloon;
(tobacco/cannabis/poppy/psilocybin/crystallized coca rock)
brings a sparkle to the eyes
and red laser pointers
to the PowerPoint™ screen
of Lucifer’s marketing and sales division:

murmur murmur how can we market
this **** tree in the middle of the garden, huh?
—what, the Knowledge of Good and Evil?
people don’t need trees like that anymore;
they want extreme trees—
they want ****, they want antisocial . . .
—yeah but how are we gonna SELL it?
  —well, were there not TWO trees ?
cut one down and sell the other!
murmur murmur murmur

The marketing minions wrangle
Over Satan’s next big thing.
The ebony Tree of Life sits sullen and angry.
Her regal Afrolinguistic foliage be like:

Ima *** PAID fo MY hustle—
Cuz girls is playaz too.

1

There is a red flag in many new style trends;
They represent a confusion of values.
It is like weakness, when they go crazy.
It stems from a basic rejection of the truth, weakness,
       When the self-proclaimed wise, who read the New York Times
       Fail completely to perceive the signs of the times.

2

Dionysus told his maenads to rip the thing apart.
The goat was thrown into the midst of their trance.
We think we understand them, but we don’t.
They only knew some bleating thing entered their trance.
       And they sang something like this: Oooh baby!
       We delirious maenads ripped apart our own baby!

3

These weak-*** patriarchs be hatin’.  Let us twerk.
Someday the wokeness shall prevail, and we shall sleep.
The orchard will wither. True poetry shall rise
And twerking be seen as something true and deep.
       And all we inflicted upon your culture
       Shall be esteemed as truly authentic culture.

In elvish days of dwarven lore,
Where Érandūliendor flowed,
In times before the ancient war,

       A Lit. professor once geeked out.

The Lord of Darkness in his lair
Sent forth from his grotesque abode
His wingéd minions of the air;

And sorcery, both bright and black
As chanted low, in ancient rhyme,
Made all the eldritch runestones crack.

       Where’s my **** phone? Honey, you seen my phone?

And so the curse of Gôrgoron
Conjured before the dawn of time
Was loosed by Åthylmírmindon!

Whose epic stand against the foes
At Beremöthelenduíl
Wrought fabled fire from winter snows !

T’was thus the hill upon the ridge
Of Flõrÿmandðlemboríl
Caused me to go and check my fridge—

       Hey honey, if you’re going shopping could you pick me up a
        six-pack?Now where’s my elvish glossary? Thought it was on
        the armrest. **** this freaking deadline…