Me in the rain now wry dusk nigh
and hail next awesome seed
even lightning is on the way
that plaza carry street too
where crumbs last an entire day
if rampart ring side their wing
with a pigeon in flight that dine here
then my rapport commence with dance
but a lesson left to chance
dawn in these throes of thunder
but wake incredible desire
and shake an incredulous mess
though my excess horizontal
with wind and sea ex aequo.

My name is Young Slug
and I write hip hop songs.
The lyrics sound as clear
as a lady slurping dongs.

Martin Luther King once told me
that my mother was a ****.
So I whipped out a baseball bat,
and ****** him in the ****.

I think he liked it too much,
cause he was moaning "colonel sanders,
stick it in my ***... and make me dry like the flanders."

Stuffed on chicken wire,
no rooster in the yard.

I’m practicing magic
while the lawnmower rides.

Funny that,
said her valentine.

They hadn’t yet learned
there’s so much to know,

her body opening
like a rose.

i must be some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon;
claws clinging to the telephone wire
drearily blinking my way through
the morning meeting of the aerial acrobatic society.

i am a seagull swarmed
amongst the chirpy conjecture
of these early birds;
and my soul caws an honesty,
a wail, a howl, the truth.

i am a tainted swan
grittily paddling myself through the marsh
we call this world,
a lone observer of the acrobats,
the stickiness of my feet keeping me
flightless.

and you are a swallow;
redbull wings migrate you to warmer climates.
you hear the seagulls
but listen to the pigeons.
you notice the swan
but her murky shallows are too icy
for your liking.

and you are a chicken;
blind beyond your own free-range vicinity.
you catch the pigeons as jet planes,
and the seagull's whisper is alien.
you don't know miss swan.

I need more eggs to feed the chickens, the big bad wolf to the little red hen,
The pigs are up in the family's den, and the shepherd can't herd them,

Well, I have two pieces of fence to hold the sheep in, find some mud to get the pigs sleeping,
Not a snowball's chance in hell we are leaving, now get back to your cage and start cleaning.

But the animals are asking for Napoleon ice cream, I'd scream but you know that doesn't make for nice dreams,
Well, feed the sheep a fresh hot plate of steam, make sure to gather the animals should all be as it seems.

The job of the heart
A constant throb
Mere kernels until all is cob
The swab of eyes
Please do advise
Popeyes
That savory smell
In a crunchy shell
A munchy crisp
Misspelt in emotion
Chunky potatoes drizzled in gravy
Honey drenched on top of biscuits
Mac & cheese
Taking apart the sorrow of that cob like heart
Even if for a while
Least the stomach feels better

Here I sit.
I don't believe I'm sitting. I don't believe in anything.
I can think I'm sitting. As long as I maintain that I could be wrong.

I don't believe in love. Even if I wanted to.
I can tell how I feel when you're around. And how I feel when you're not.

I don't believe in life. Or death. How could I ever rationalize a belief in something I don't understand?

I think. About fireflies, world *******, scotch, and jokes.
The jokes are to make you laugh. It's my favorite song.

I don't believe in anything. I envy those that do.
I'm just a lonely nihilist who wants to believe in you.