I am G, I am G,
I am the G – known as G J C.
I am the G, I am the G,
I am the G who goes to the M C G.
I am the G, I am the G,
I am the G whos loving every tree.
I make up words meant to be heards.
rattled and shaked – I address my hates.
Where ever we go, we fix the shit show,
Plating your arse, like a croc at task.
I sing my words from an elongated hearse,
a trebble hoarse from a trio’d worse.
Historians know how we all go,
what they dont know – is G’s running the show.
He listened, he wept, he kept on track.
He read, he said, we worked it in his head.
The gruff, the stuff, the mating and all its tuff.
We havn’t held you tight – till you decided to loose that fight.
Now with the world in distress, God being asked to do the rest.
Be it reach or stretch, be it length or rest,
thoses who havnt got its able, will have to table fable.
But for those who fairy tunes,
and others who read folk muses,
will certainly remember,
how it all ended in December.
Those spacially unaware,
those who’ve had to grin and bear.
Those who’ve lost their toes,
those who know not where they goes.
learn that spacial aware,
brings more than joys to bear.
The live of a living poet,
Is mostly unknow until you do it.
Do the work, read it all,
listen with intensity – ready for more.
kill the kays, bury the dee’s,
orphan off all those tee’s.
roll the bees, lenthen your vees,
who hasn’t had time for a heap of zees.
forget the effs, suck up the esses,
extreemly important to expand our ex’s.
Who of you have long forget,
where you came and where you’ll rot.
What’ll be said and what’ll be shown,
And it wont be said – that your ready to own.