Last night, yeah, last night I was sitting in my living room next to a fire fueled by the heads of my enemies, stroking ‘Metta World Hunger,’ my beloved hyena.
Reading about techniques to maintain the perfect rose garden and shit.
When all of a sudden some soon-to-be-dead motherfucker went all a-knocking on my chamber door. And I said ‘Yo it’s just some soon-to-be-dead motherfucker rapping on my chamber door.
Only some shit like that and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I still wake up from terrible nightmares of last December. As I watched Nash and Pau drag their decrepit corpses all across the floor.
Eagerly, I wished to be traded.
Vainly, I tried to escape Kobe, and wept for the loss of my beloved mind.
For the rare and radiant hoodrat-for-life my mother named Ronald.
Metta Word Peace for evermore.
Sherman Ave 