By Tikum Mbah Azonga
Carry me our of here
Don`t call the flower bearers
They`re all weepers
Carry me out before I faint
Away from these lava prods
Used raped saxophones and unbroken mud molds
Obstructed impregnated gremlins and cursed marauders.
Give me another oxymoron
A few sacks of American dollars
Three newly-enthroned king fatteners
But of course, no saint
Replace the gangrenous vaginas with iron rods
And talk in terms of gram atoms and not moles
Only then while I rise and go to the theatre.