Sorry For The Spellin Poem by Elude Most

the tree roots grow deep, the feline to speek has my sole feline week, keeping it in, fixin the crakes, leeks are taped, i wish i would finshes with that n my life, hand over a spsice number of dice to role n find out the out come of my mind my memory my sole thats fine, id be lien if i sead id b happy dead cuz how can u feel with wots goin in ur hed turns to blood shed, to b onset im fed up with this, with this fist full pane it ganes no more names just a lame perception of fame, n this felin of miss the sad abbreviated standed of diss, the point of life lets point at mine go laf thats fine im not listen this time, the billboards shine, the advitisment blind so we all que in line holding on to the thin fred, show us the way, all the lights are dimmed instead, the war in the middle east the little lefe we no of not of the hole tree, iv hurt both side of the argument n tho hu blame it on parliament/ gaufament so much to say but im plumiten. Still the days stay the same.