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i’ll fuck every one of emily's friends if given the chance. just kidding. more shallow than i am spiteful still eyeing the slim pickings. the world is cracked but if girls ever dance to this song i'll die smiling and suicide bomb a tanning salon. the hand of god has five middle fingers and it fights to pick the right one for everyone who thinks it’s white. and if i’m wrong, whatever. black power in hell. the pick up games’ll be better and honest rap might sell. stereotypes are real. turn your swag on young mantan. trend surf and go hard like david beckham’s tramp stamp. i’m a black man who can’t dance, half-truths in his story. telling every girl i meet oral sex bores me. probably sleep through the mourning when my father dies and learn to hate his face less in every mirror that won’t apologize. i settle for contradiction between conquering and compromise. ‘til civic duty means firing squads for white collar crimes i won’t raise a gun. won’t greet a rapist with a shook hand. karma should call itself cancer for dane cook fans. if words do what looks can’t with pockmarks and lockjaw, the forked path i write from's part kundera, part todd shaw. part’s just sparring charm with the bartender’s body armor shots. and capitalism’s just a slow and steady holocaust. i’d love to crack your smile and heist diamonds you line your mouth with. more rappers should shoot each other so they don’t have to lie about it.