Death Sucks And Sew Does His Dirty Rotten Henchmen. - Poem by Michael Gale
Death, to me is just for the flyin' freakin' birds.
Death can march behind the biggest chicken's clanned beaten of herds.
Just let Mister Death just'a try knockin' a'atta my door...
I'll not answer that poor gutlessy whore.
He can keep tryin' to rap at my home's entryway...
I'll kick his butt clear out of this area of mine own eternity and vincinity's stay.
Those boney like hands can keep flappin' past my neighborhood...
For him i am better and only better than his evil ways all so no good.
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