I don't find myself, in bleached skin, hearkening back to bein' black
& living the life of Riley in West Bellaire's draftiest tar-paper shack
with Wonder Woman Lynda **** Carter scratching ****** my back
because the cleavage I got isn't as wondrous as her fantastical crack
that rides cabooses through Indore on an Indo-Euro fascistical track
over the impossible curvature of our shooting, masonical ball Earth
as it spins one thousand miles-per-hour at its fattest Equatorial girth