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Friday, July 14, 2017

My Sexy Little Levonna

Her name is Levonna.
Her Daddys from Ghana.

She spent too much time in the sauna.
Now she's black as Obama.

She's got no skills with a basketball.
But that ass, it be bouncing though.

She can dance like a champ.
Until she's ready for a nap.

She's a crazy cat lady.
And she likes to get nakey.

She adopts puppies like Aficans, cause she's Angie Jo Lee.
So much work, no wonder why she's shleepy.
Cause all the pups always have to go pee pee.

She's got a Down Syndrome baby.
And a rich old white lady.

She's gets turned away from the movies.
Too bad she can't just show them her boobies.

She's a make-up artist.
And a class-A fartist.

She spent a birthday in Honolulu.
She got that smooth skin, it looks like poo poo.

Solving problems with domestic violence.
She wants to be a psychiatrist.

She's totally gay.
For Lana Del Rey.

But you know who rings her bell.
That fat bitch Adele.

She's got a boner 4 OJ.
Her favorite word...O-K.

Her only Dad was a crook.
She likes to get honkies shook.

She likes fingers and fists.
From her fellow feminists.

Buying tickets to Rihanna.
What a nice white Mama.

She took me to Carbaret.
Oh my God, does she think I'm gay??!!?

Her vaginal apartment was all fluffy and cute.
That whom baring bitch was a prostitute.
Cause she likes black cock, what a sloot sloot sloot.

Her ancestors, they sell em.
She gives the Brentwood welcome.
(oooo tell em)

Her favorite book is The Outsiders.  
Her passion burns like a thousand fires.

Her lips are burning hot like rubber on tires.
We're like magnets she and I, and every time we fight and break-up we keep getting pulled back to one another by invisible wires.

Now this is the end of her lover's poem.
And she'll hold onto his words, for however long she knows him.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Levonna's Love Poem

She's a black beauty queen.
And a sex machine.

All the boys.
Look like toys.

And the back of her hand.
She spends more time, in the sheets, theen the Klu Klux Klan.

She puts the homo in sapien.
That's her pussy, she's shavin it.

She's stuffed with crackers, like a soup kitchen.
She whispers in all the ears of the boys, are you catchin or pitchin?

Now its time to wrap up the show.
So getcha clothes and go.

This ain't a Holiday Inn.
Just...a palace of sin.

Now fare well, fare well.
(I guess) I'll see you in hell. 

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

White Liberals

I can not know your pain.
And I will never know your frustrations.
But I will march with you.

I will not pretend I have not had it easy.
And I can not lie and say I have not had it better.
But I will march with you.

I do not know your struggle.
And your daily fears are only words to me.
But I will march with you.

I can sympathize,
but I do not empathize.
[Even when I got my arm,]
[around a pair of black thighs.] 
[And all my friends are cool black guys.] 
I share your opinions,
but not your emotions.

I can stay calm,
because its not happening to me.
I can tell you to stay calm,
because its not happening to me.
Its easy for me to tell you to stay calm,
because it'll never happen to me.

They'll never look at me,
like they look at you.
They'll never cross the street on me,
like they do to you.

I can tell you violence is not the answer.
But that's my luxury.
To preach peace in the face of pain,
that does not apply to me.

To physically lower your furled fist,
cocked behind your head ready to swing.
In the face of slurs,
that don't apply to me.

I can join your movement,
and I can take a stand.
But I can sit when I bored,
and sing with Uncle Sam.

Your the skin you are,
but I can walk away.
Treat your movement like an amusement park,
and say, I'm not gonna march today.