Broken artists: a poem


Every dollar gets us closer

Closer to . G . O . D . 

Every fancy . S . U . V .

Forty million 

Develop at height

Heights heights

Evict the whole block

I love your passion

Flowers that look like genitalia

Broken artist

Media backlash

Cash Cash

I am staying at her place

Its a rich suburb

I am staying

Just back from Berlin

Expecting you to do my job

You pleb you slob

Do what I say for no pay

Play with your genitalia

Play that beat

You dead beat

Crash crash I am waiting

I am waiting for money to fix a broken world

Get them working in the tittie bar

Get them in my flash car

Get those bills paid, kills, slay

Don’t talk back

This ain’t your track

Don’t make a mad man mad

Don’t make the good look bad

The world is all death and dollars

But my world isn’t bleak

It isn’t all dicks and balls

But flowers and trees, it depends where you look

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