Poverty is a clock

……like the back of Forest Whitaker’s neck, red and inflamed, looks like pain, here we go again, an attempt to look into the future, sure it won’t suit ya, pass the suture, so I can stitch you up, with some karma sutra, nothing can dispute you, or uproot you, once grounded in truth, you’ll be held tight like a sabertooth, in it like a talented singer in the boof,  a black raven taking off from the roof, I’m trying to possess that black man that’s scared to shoot and leave blood in their boots; God is man and man is god, just cause I’m demi don’t mean I can’t make you do simmies, gimme mines, you’ve held it from me along time, it’s tic tic time.