"neiman" poems
And I always find, yeah, I always find something wrong
You been putting up with my **** just way too long
I'm so gifted at finding what I don't like the most
So I think it's time for us to have a toast
Let's have a toast for the **********
Let's have a toast for the ********
Let's have a toast for the scumbags
Every one of them that I know
Let's have a toast for the jerk-offs
That'll never take work off
Baby, I got a plan
Run away fast as you can
[Verse 1: Kanye West]
She find pictures in my e-mail
I sent this ***** a picture of my ****
I don't know what it is with females
But I'm not too good with that ****
See, I could have me a good girl
And still be addicted to them hoodrats
And I just blame everything on you
At least you know that's what I'm good at
[Hook]
[Bridge]
Run away from me, baby, run away
Run away from me, baby, run away
It's about to get crazy, why can't she just, run away?
Baby, I got a plan, run away fast as you can
[Verse 2 - Pusha T]
24/7, 365, ***** stays on my mind
I-I-I-I did it, all right, all right, I admit it
Now pick your next move, you could leave or live wit' it
Ichabod Crane with that ************* top off
Split and go where? Back to wearing knockoffs, haha
Knock it off, Neiman's, shop it off
Let's talk over mai tais, waitress, top it off
Hoes like vultures, wanna fly in your Freddy loafers
You can't blame 'em, they ain't never seen Versace sofas
Every bag, every blouse, every bracelet
Comes with a price tag, baby, face it
You should leave if you can't accept the basics
Plenty hoes in the balla-nigga matrix
Invisibly set, the Rolex is faceless
I'm just young, rich, and tasteless
P!
[Verse 3: Kanye West]
Never was much of a romantic
I could never take the intimacy
And I know I did damage
Cause the look in your eyes is killing me
I guess you are at an advantage
Cause you can blame me for everything
And I don't know how I'mma manage
If one day you just up and leave
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Only men remember the names of their cars,
the make and model and the year they got them.
They can recall the feeling on their thighs
from the cushioning of luxurious leather
as they slide in with a longing sigh.
There is no will power known to man
that can keep their fingers from caressing,
the steering wheel spinning in their fantasy drive.
Eyes scanning the dash to inspect the odometer
praising the low mileage of where she's been driven
fooling himself that he's the driver that counts.
If only they understood the true lust of leather
comes in the form of wedges or stilettos,
and not only noticed when they're kicked off.
Which, by the way, are Pradas,
sold by Neiman Marcus,
bought last month at Fifth and Grand.
Sep 3, 2009
Sep 3, 2009 at 12:31 PM UTC
three years I worshipped
in the red brick cathedrals
by the ugliest lake on the planet,
but I was cast out of the holy halls,
with mounds of Mellaril, and other sacred potions in pill form
to see the “outreach caseworker”, though I never knew
what she was reaching for
my husband had divorced me,
both my sons were in Dallas, dealing cards
at Wall Street casinos, holding the aces for themselves or a chosen few,
like I really knew anything about what
filled their days
my sister took me in,
fed me finger foods, had her maid bathe me
and invited the ghosts from my past into her house
they all hugged me and told me how nice my hair looked
now that I was no longer yanking it out by the fist full
and choking on it as it went down
they smelled of sycophantic scents from Macy’s
and Neiman Marcus, and I longed for the odor of my cellmate,
who had to be submerged in a steaming sea once a week, after
they had pumped enough of Morpheus’ brew in her to
mellow a mammoth
I missed her, and her truculent silence
and the way her arms writhed in her jacket,
like so many snakes squirming to be free,
or perhaps those were the last sin eating serpents
in their death throes, but I would never know
for in 1000 days and 1000 nights, her jacket
was never removed, for the white ones feared what
black storm waited inside, so they allowed it to hide
someplace in her fetid carcass
now when I look across the charcoal stillness
of my room, cluttered with dead distractions,
I imagine her there, on her cot, producing anthems
on mad marching afternoons, or singing lullabies
in evenings last gasps, all without making a sound,
then my eyes well with tears, for I know
she would miss me too, and worry
what I was doomed to hear and smell
now that her mystic music and stench
were stolen from me
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
I'm a small town girl but I still got a heart.
I'm gorgeous so why I can't you write me a poem?
I attract blue collar workers looking for cheap dating.
I get the ones driving pickups who want a front seat quickie.
Did it a few times but it left me feeling cheap.
Felt like dirt after he drop me on curb when we got done.
No kiss good night no I'll call you no nothing.
Hate hearing from men same old stuff like
Hello honey want a beer?
A beer? *** I'm wearing a nice dress and heels.
Maybe I can't afford to shop at Neiman Marcus
but I'm still very gorgeous!
Maybe I never ate caviar or drank high tea
whatever the hell high tea is.
Does that make me not as good as the one you call gorgeous?
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
I want to say I’m sorry - your present looks like that.
It wasn’t kicked by UPS or pummeled with a bat
The master wrappers I prefer, simply aren’t around
A slow economy got them or the covid cut them down.
My boys at Neiman Marcus, I miss those guys so much
and the girls Bergdorf Goodman had such a subtle touch
the lacy Le Bon Marché ribbons, are what set their work apart
no matter where you placed those gifts, they always looked like art
I miss those tasteful craftsmen, but instead of being depressed
I watched some Youtube lessons - and I tried my very best
but the present came out so miserably, I thought I should confess
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC