fitty 8

I guess all my protestations

don’t amount to nothing, guess I

need this chance

to bitchslap the shit out of you What you

write always does my head in, see? My sonnet

rhymes, why are yours always so half-arsed?

I love you still, even being a cunt, you

got in my head and your murders stick as

bricks to build and break

into little pieces Yet in

the end, all its underrated glory glow

hoodwinks us But, I guess, that’s what’s left to hope for