"credited" poems
left my phone unlocked
on the taxi’s back seat,
won't be the last time
called it a few times
finally, the driver picked up
he had a fare immediately after mine,
and was now headed way downtown,
and would call later
when fate returned him nearer my office
and so it came to pass,
very shortly thereafter,
we met on the street,
he rolled down the window
and with the greatest smile of pleasure,
as if he had won the lottery
beaming,
handed me my phone
I had two $20's to cover any expense he might have incurred,
neatly folded in my hand
and offered it right up, right away;
but the driver repeatedly pushed my hand away
as I insisted,
saying:
*"No sir, no no, not necessary!
Allah sent me a fare
that took me soon back close to you, so,
no loss of time did I suffer,
so your offer is kindly unnecessary!"*
to which I replied,
*"exactly!
Allah sent you to me
so I could reward you!"*
and with an equally, beaming smile I continued,
*"our ride and meeting today,
together was pre-ordained it was*
Inshallah!" ^
something he could not dispute...
or my knowledge thereof and it’s
proper pronouncement,
nor
his amazement,
to disguise!
we parted ways
each believing,
each receiving,
a heavenly check plus,
each, credited with a mitzvah^^
on our
respective trip logs,
our humanly divine balance sheets,
kept by the
single
supreme taxi dispatcher
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
*My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death
This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received
My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account
A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay
My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession
I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free
My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote
Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire
So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold
He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side
And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!*
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
*My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death
This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received
My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account
A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay
My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession
I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free
My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote
Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire
So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold
He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side
And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!*
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.
The Master Weaver’s Plan
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.
Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.
by AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.
with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
*My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death
This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received
My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account
A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay
My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession
I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free
My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote
Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire
So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold
He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side
And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!*
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
The match on Sunday was matchless,
For Ozzie lost to India with grace,
Indian players snatched from them,
Indians stole the victory so easy,
But it just seemed easy in the end,
Each one of the Ozzie hurlers,
Couldn't even ask for the water.
Virat - great was the beating!
And to be credited is just not Virat,
Anushka Sharma is equally credible,
Had she never broken up with him,
Virat Kohli would still be distracted,
Against ultimate opponents Ozzies,
Our team stood not a single chance,
If not for his sweet vengeful courage.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
i miss your lips
the way they'd smoothly dance
like a genie in a lamp
as you'd sing
and speak
how sweet your memory tastes
though the reality has long since faded
i cling to my effervescent exaggerations of our tangled past
replaying time to time
on the dream-screen of my mind
as i snack lightly on the salty remarks of my youth
and i laugh
it hurts
but it feels so healthy
you fade through the moon-mist
and dismiss your own existence
once again proclaiming that you are nothing
but an extension of it all
a fingerprint of the wilky-way
just a strand of DNA
swimming through the wake of infinite expansion
i miss it
the beer-breath incantions you'd softly slur after dark
the kisses you'd plant along my edges
like the vines that trace the hedges
in the front lawn of that dusty place we'd fake our love
nostalgia always begins so inviting
untill you're finally feeling sea-sick
from the over-ingestion of false sweets
and pure imagination
now we're so far gone
living in a different reality entirely
i don't think i'd even know your face if i saw it
i know you only by the way your shape fits in the frame
another handsome man
trapped forever in the reels of film of my mind
but i'll remember you
you're woven into the wood works
drunkenly dancing through a serendipitous sea of names
stands the lamen's term for your current shape
your birth-given name
credited with a handfull of scars
left behind by a man who forced me to grow
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
Eternally accepted in God’s Son,
His righteousness now credited to me,
I’m pardoned, justified, set fully free.
By grace through faith, hesed is ne’er undone.
No merit of myself on which to stand,
my works of flesh and law won’t favor earn.
But God Himself in Christ, I’d finally learn,
had satisfied each holy, just demand.
And by same grace through faith that justifies,
Christ’s working out His righteousness in those,
by covenant before the world, He knows,
e’er keeps, upholds, protects and sanctifies.
Because in Jesus Christ I am approved,
from trusting in His love I’ll not be moved.
Jun 13, 2022
Jun 13, 2022 at 1:51 PM UTC
This is not my home,
Blame narcissism; what I bring to the table is balance and I’m not alluding to table salt,
Credited Shiva when fables taught;
So why am I alone?
To the left are the people I left,
I can even summarize as past,
Their decisions were based off right removing rights,
This is an act of freedom;
Feeling obligated to honor a name,
The illusion is last,
As of right now,
I exist in between,
It’s during the experience, that I wonder…
Sooo, why am I alone?
When I lay eyes on a female, I want her to feel disrespected,
It’s important that a female is aware of her insecurities,
It’s important that she sees the disconnection, impurities, her own reflection,
Buddy want his hotdog wet; thought ejects*,
Natural selection,
Buddy want the Top Dog vest,
I’m baffled, I only guide a confession,
I’m eliciting the potential,
Pushing a resurrection,
Sharing; passing lessons,
Sparking questions,
My love you’re in the box, I want you to be free; Change of perception,
They fed you food for regressions and impressions,
Polarity rings; I’m attracted to the curves, the body’s expression,
That musty smell of oppression/depression,
How could you blame me for wanting to interfere,
I hate MEN; I’m calling progressive…
FLO here,
For lovers only,
Love is what I’ve been giving since birth, and I don’t expect a return,
People show hate; universe translation (twenty years later),
“Tough love”; discerned,
I laugh daily, that is the outcome of pain,
Me wearing colors was the outcome of being plain,
I made a choice; no longer was the same,
I can honestly relate to Jane,
Feminism is misconceived these days; point was a healthy balance of both carries no shame,
It’s unknown, separate from the game,
Adiyogi Shiva; Transcendental if omming the name…
I always wonder if I’m narcissistic; I love people unconditionally, there’s no reason why I should ever feel alone.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
Hugging the devil, refraining from the Lord:
Filling my hollow and empty life, the gourd
Of my soul, up with the mirth of lechery;
Making frenzied fortune from debauchery,
While the account of my heart is credited
With slush happiness: full, yet never sated.
Lured by diverse lusts; rain do not up fill
A basket. Man is vapid outside God's will.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
All the color
Stained away
Drained AwayFrom around
My monochromatic core
Becoming an abstract memory
Spreading
In a screaming ,raging silence
All across.....
....This sad and pock marked floor
In shades of grey
I make my way ...past
The last ....ornamental
Bit of sanity
I find..... before
I slip into the mist
Of uninspired ,hard wired
Usurpers....
.....of all
That lay ahead
Where dreams die
As the ordained
Squeeze hard ..then discard
Any evidencerary consideration
Left
Beyond the veil
Of the awaiting mist
Obscurity wilting away
The ubiqitous absence
That latest wisp
Of wide appeal ...for those of us
Who allow ourselves
To be drained of all color
Amid the abstract disregard
Of who we were in our own way
Conceding to become
unhearlded
retreating ghosts
Of monochromatic grey
Unadorned bits of sanity
Saluting as we pass by
On our own ....on our way
Not even credited
With the abstract decor
Left behind us ....
On the now even sadder
Pock marked floor
As it hears the screaming ,raging silence
As it's echo fades away ,lost ,ghostly pale
Absorbed ....
By the grey mist....
..... beyond the awaiting veil !
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
There was a wall of soil.
A bright sun kept it warm.
But the darkness of the vacant, roofless room made the growth hurt
when a lone flower spurt from the fertile earth.
The flower prayed every night for the Sun's light.
Blinded by the night, the flower was unable to see it's shadow to show his rising height.
No mirrors or a filled flowered field to observe or compare it's growth.
The flower didn't see how much the darkness made him grow until the Sun was out.
That's how he found out he was taller now but falsely credited the Sun.
The gift and curse of the wallflower.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
*it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******** as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*
let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
The overwhelming depths of your womanhood
Feeling trapped and burdened by your decisions
Living in the lap of luxury of your own selfishness
Actually thinking you could live for yourself
Or pave your own way with grace and dignity
But you are much more than who you've been credited
Those who doubt you fuel your ambition
You are the moon lighting your own darkness
You are the roots of all that has bloomed
You are the beacon of wisdom of all your past lovers
None of whom will ever understand the entirety of your beauty
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 3:24 AM UTC
Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.
You're fair game if your sign up for anything.
Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.
St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm
In case you want to check it out too...
Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!
Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!
Ok ok, grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....
Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those ***** (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!
But thanks for thinking of me anyway.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
"Omni, Do tell"
A sunless sun...
a cloudless cloud
are the same in one?
Dear Omni, without your help I fear that
I'm done!
Do tell or I wished I'd never met you from day one! ~Venjencie
Ven, venae toward the heart
How can I end what you have start?
Light and dark
each spinning round
Dear Ven, this, only once around
It starts
If you really knew me,
you wouldn't want to know me
at all.~Omni
Dear Omni, because I ink ****** words as a broken poet, We're blood from the same neck of the woods. Is a wingless bird free? If you end it then that's what I will be... a wingless bird that can never fly free. VenJencie
Omni Oct 6
If the woods be too high, climb down then fly. A flightless bird knows no envy. It too knows it is free. I, Omni do tell, only because I've seen it as well. Dear Venjencie, even the woods be broken, but still they grow.
-Omni
My dearest Omni, maybe you're my harmony,
So do tell something I need to know,
Will you disappear after I whisper my sin into your ear;
(whispering), I'm not devious but I'm very much envious,
For my beauty can never compare to the beautiful colored wings of others,
I fear the woods will cease to grow,
Then my very life will cease
...being wingless you know,
If the woods burn down,
Would you try to rescue me after I made my sin
of jealousy known? ~SacredInkedblood
©2018 Venjencie Arnold
Omni 5m
Only in flight, are we less, but no lesser than any until it is of the mind. I tell you, you soar! Your words take flight and maybe, just maybe, your words save me. Wings need no envy nor want of shame. They take flight in the heart and sail in the expanse of the brain. There are no borders for envy and jealousy for they will always be, and so too we. Your wings mightily open and quench the fires of the forest with a single and simple flutter. There is no need for rescue. Your sin, be it as mine own, is safe with me.
-Omni ©2018
"Omni, do tell"
2018©
Rights credited to Omni and Venjencie Arnold
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
There was a time when it served me well to forget the times
When they were fresh to devestate
Hard times, mean times, time to forget but the memories wouldn't stay buried
For too long
It took a long time to keep them from escaping the soul-locked box I stuffed them in
Hoping, they would rot inside
Losing, with the passage of time, the power they weilded
What damage had been done would eventually be credited to other foes
But that's not quite what happened
******
There is a soul-locked box sits in the center of all I know
With no labels or any way to guess what might be inside
Be it wonderful or wicked
Light as a feather
Stinking, moldy air?
Ashes, fine powder weightless?
A black hole vacuum just waiting for me to open it
For to be ****** down and in to the times for which it was spawned
I don't know what's inside but this I do know:
It's something important
A missing piece of a huge jigsaw puzzle that covered my grandmother's coffee table
An instinctive aversion to Thursday nights at 9:00 o'clock
A resolution to never again defend the Bible to bullies
A plastic bag filled with flour, snorted like *******
I don't know what's inside, but I do know this:
It's something important
A casual observer forced to take sides to help a weak man win
A look in the eye only noticed through hateful glaring and if eyes are truly the window to the soul...
A new meaning to the phrase "looks that ****
A wet pillowcase still warm from muffled curses
I don't know what's inside, but this I do know:
I'm afraid of knowing
Because I think I DO know and now I don't want to
I remember pain and disappointment, fear and contempt
A loathing for someone who may or may not have deserved it
Someone with a set of excuses every bit as valid/worthless as mine
I'm afraid of the possibility ithat those excuses don't amount to anything
That forgiveness somehow got lost in the shuffle and someone went to heaven without mine
And I can only pray that there was a time he repented and forgave me in his own mind
Because I have a strong suspicion
That forgiveness is the key to the soul-locked box
In the Spirit, let the breeze dissolve the molding, rotten air
Let the Wind, which no man knows which way it comes or which way it goes, dissolve ashes into ether
I long to find out the times, torn from the fabric of time
Memories alive but unconsciously ignored
You tell me you can tear down those walls
I say Ignorance is Bliss
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
What is it hereby that I seeith?
Unardent archetypes,
Credited cards to swipe for fast food,
Archaic since long ago!!!!
Aristocratics art thou?
Gormandizing collared frenzies,
A meal plus ten for thine own family?
What about thy neighbor?
The one on thy street?
Doused in fluid, puke, and his own safekeeps,
Not enough for him thou furtive frugal?
Yea,
Tuck thine own pockets back in,
Dont let him see you have all to giveth!!!
Unlargess you!!!
As this old rock spins in circular motion,
To thine loved ones all time and devotions,
Thou giveth not to thine own family,
But to slot machines?
Thou maverick!!!
Thine phene!!!
Agile pabulum Haven's hath become brothels of aspirin taking needed,
Once a day for unclogging!!!!!
Protractingly fateful health oh mortal?
Trying to live to one hundred?
Afraid for thy soul to pass?
What's wrong? No god? No faith at last?
Provident to failure!!!
Virulent art thou,
For thine work thou hath made thine surplus,
Skipping the wife's needs?
For forty hours of volition and lust!!!!
Visionary of demonic audacity!!!
Thy own path is manifest and lamenting,
For art thou not repenting of thy fast lifted paradox??
I'm a cynic to thy trust!!!!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
You have two hours to complete this poem.
Do not start reading it until you are told to do so.
Any attempt at original interpretation will be penalised.
All ‘insights’ must be taken directly from your tutor’s point of view.
All quotes should be plagiarised and not credited.
Anyone found copying sample essays will be rewarded.
Do not attempt to understand or feel the poem in any way.
If you have read these instructions clearly you have no need to read this poem at all
Do not turn over (you’re done).
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 2:38 AM UTC
Hurling curses everywhere,
pitchforks and pistols in everyhand.
The price for silence
flirted with moral opulence.
The minted paper lollipops
credited our hungry accounts;
whilst our future sold in the markets
and our groins thrown in the caskets.
Change is not a criteria to progress
because it is a slutty variable.
Honesty is not a key to political prowess
because it is transparently breakable.
Let the feet do the talking
and the mouth do the standing.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
I can't grasp your moving picture
When you were the director
Of my life's lovely scripture
You were the connector
To a screen that dug deep
Your image makes me weep
Your image scares me to sleep
So I may dream of you
And a world for two
When in reality
You are one
And I am none
So I tell triumphant stories to myself
Like the past glories of someone else
I direct movies in my mind
My brain always on rewind
To a time I crossed a line
Painful memories to remind
I don't know what I'm doing
When your picture keeps moving
In my mind film keeps burning
In your mind film keeps turning
Life is tough without you
But that's because life is tough
And now you're just another part
Me another broken heart
I was dealt my cards
They got me this far
Then shattered to shards
Like the film of you
That hit the cutting room floor
The moment you walked out the door
I developed strife
From the memories I edited
In your life
Will I be credited?
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
A writer asked me long ago,
For advice on getting better.
He runs through his works with a fine-tooth comb,
Sculpting each and every letter.
I said,firstly sheath your fine-tooth comb,
For blood-lust it will only bring,
And undress your cliche armour sir,
For it only numbs the sting.
And then I said, with cigarette lit,
Be not ashamed of all your vices,
You're allowed to care; and it's fine to swear --
It's allowed, if you can write it.
Don't do this **** for fortune,
For fame or to be credited,
And if you want advice on writing well --
Keep that **** unedited.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
The master copyist hath made an appearance
Without being given the proper clearance
He's just blown in at another poetry site
One bets he'll be at his usual caper
Plagiarizing poet's work on his paper
Twas noted that he'd come to have a look
For poems which he could put in his own nook
None can be credited as a true write
This chap is serial at knocking things off
No wonder we should of him verily scoff
As bold as a brass **** he was stealing
Slipping under the radar's scope to ******
He's made that locale his casual patch
Hope he hasn't purloined those poet's writing
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
When the raps are givin'
Lyrically by me
I'll leave ya head spinnin'
Like a disco ball
Haters on the gall
But all I do is make one phone call
I got homies to hoes pack 44s
Check the iced chromed door
Of jeep four by four
Ya sweet as a nectarine
When I hit the scene
I turn ****** skin green
Brooklyn bounce more to the ounce
The drunker I get
The harder I hit
The more some ones bound for a casket
No remorse check the source
I was credited before I was edited
The Black Capone
I'm raps chaperone its my love jones
Me and my ***** my gun
Close like lelo and stitch
Got multiple attitude so I'm rude switch
Personalities
So nobody can keep a tally on me
Its me the big the biggest competitor
Leave ya competition in sweaters
Cuz I'm cold as anartica
Glocks stay blazin' hot than africa
Bomb flows like Boston massacre
Who asking ya?
About me the only yosef mos def
With the mathematics statics
I crash it if ya show y'ass? I'll cash it
Put you on the corner
Reckless ruthless as Ike to Tina Turner
Embrace the dread **** the feds
Still taking my daily bread
Born sinner this is the philosophy of a winner
Ya unknown like Brian Skinner
Thinner ya need up ya weight son
Cuz ya falling lame son uh the don
Back to set the record straight
If ya gotta problem I'll.make ya death date
U see me I see u
Bullets hit ya temple now ya in ICU
Cuz I'm young witty and nasty and clean
Saw ya fuckin' head off if ya know what I mean??
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC