The raven looms the scourged dead sky
And flies by night to summer high
To wisp what to a widowed brew
You think that's art?
**** you.
Alone the raven watches steed
And passes plainly soft; meed
To hallow falls and morning dew
That's art as well?
**** you.
My soul is that of burning ember
Subtle sparks to Fall September
I have not chance what claims I do
I'll say it again.
**** you.
I tossed that out in miniature times
Those seemingly fantastic rhymes
Yet weeks and nights you “artists” plead
For an ounce of something, not just ****
I'll **** some rhymes and call it art
It's painful cause you're not that smart.
You aren't unique and full of might
So let us real artists take flight.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
The raven looms the scourged dead sky
And flies by night to summer high
To wisp what to a widowed brew
You think that's art?
**** you.
Alone the raven watches steed
And passes plainly soft; meed
To hallow falls and morning dew
That's art as well?
**** you.
My soul is that of burning ember
Subtle sparks to Fall September
I have not chance what claims I do
I'll say it again.
**** you.
I tossed that out in miniature times
Those seemingly fantastic rhymes
Yet weeks and nights you “artists” plead
For an ounce of something, not just ****
I'll **** some rhymes and call it art
It's painful cause you're not that smart.
You aren't unique and full of might
So let us real artists take flight.
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