Give peace a chance, was what I heard someone say at once. After many centuries of looting and bloodshed circumstance, yes.
The big bad wolfman who was known to us by the name of Wolfgang, was readying his crew to go out and do his whoop dance on him and you, again.
In the same ways and means committee, committing as much sin as he had done to them and me, before. Like, time and time again you know, yes, my good friend Mr. Borr.
By then, though, the paradigm had shifted, somewhat. What with all that help from the gods and the gifted, dumb nut.
On every side of him, the people were beginning to see the writings. Yeah, man, that was the right thing.
But, while they were sitting on the old graffiti wall that the squeegee kids and the spray-can artists were there fighting for.
(All riled-up you know, over not getting their practice on,) while looking in on the high man.
That was when they were reminded to get the messages out to everyone, (same as I did.)
Everyone who’d already signed dead, the deal, yes man.
That's when they began seeing the sightings of the hand doing the writing and began to rid themselves of him, and his kinds of sin ting, or something.
All bundled up and tossed from under their eyes skin, tall and stout, like him. Yes, that same one at whom I’m pointing.
Boy, that’s a big, big man right there, I think I like him too. But, I'm scared, I can barely see his eyes skin from where I’m standing and watching you. But let's continue to tin you, if nothing else.
Along with the four king sin ting that they had dragged in, and his ways of doing these things, and yes, those things over there too. No doubt.
At the first sign of the blowtorch and the flaming cutlass, the troublesome vice came rolling back at us, and calling us to attention with a doorknock.
But someone from the new clan had already gone in and changed the code for the Chubb lock. Yes, that.
The lock that was hanging on the wall like a picture frame on the money can Hingh, again. Can you not see the boxed-in door frame?
“Yes, my good friend, there it is. In front of the house marshall who had refused to obey the deport call and was seen sitting in a secured hall, at the outpost over there.”
Stayed put a bit too long in the seating chair you know, man, yes. They had to drag him out of there, sword in hand.
Surrounded by one too many scouts of theirs.
There wasn’t going to be any more "business as usual" over there, said Mr. Personality to the little blues gal who was there putting on a steamy little show, at the clubhouse event.
"Somebody will have to go and renegotiate a fresh deal with the general," he meant.
So said the message she was sent at the hand of a man who was tagged as a criminal.
But he wasn’t any such puffed-up pushover steel pad, as they had thought when they told her that, no.
Not like the real pad man who I’m here pointing the blaming finger on. Didn't you know? Yes.
That man was the same one who was supposed to use the position that he was given to scour the pots and pans to a shiny clean, as a tool to try and put a stall on the loathing call in the evening.
But he had not done anything about it yet, believe me, not him. Surely, such situational arrangements cannot remain till another day’s end.
“Well, not if the status quo is to be maintained."
So said the frank chieftain, of an angry peace man over there nearer to Spain Town than Linstead Square. But beware, that was not the way these things were going to go, out of there. At least, not yet.
Not as it was to be seen through the eyes of the traditional linemen leaning in.
Those who were there firing their bubbles and steaming hot about what they should, or shouldn’t have gotten get.
Coming to him from the pen of the regimental government, and into their pockets. But they had not gotten it yet.
Because we too would have gotten sober one day, and decided to go over and play.
Well, no, not really to play. But to join in on the washtub bath night that very evening, alright?
Yes, the street parade that the commander-in-chief had paid for and sent us out to bathe in. Under the moonlight event, even.
He was trying to get us to "make some noise," you know, while washing our garment in the ancestors’ blood to white, and getting us to come back clean.
See what I mean? "Yes." Well, good night Dean. So long Gene, said Ms. Dell to him.
And now, this poet has spoken.
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