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I rest my case. (9H)

I ask myself:
When are clouds darker than dusk.
When are dreams sadder than desperation.
When shall slaves be freer than the ones they serve.

How might a song rush more intense to meet the storm?

Delayla wins another game of chess.
Another. God, I really wanna kill this bitch with her lengthy neck, her teeming hair, and her smile guys go down on like fuckin’ lackeys. That much fortune should be prosecuted.
My teeming hair is all on my legs, my smile looks like a fucked up grin like I’ve been watching too much sexual sadism while heavy on baby bottom amphetamines. Well, I have. I look like a pygmy and my brain is so fried by the unholy mix of Mexicano mush, mescaline, and morphine that the only intellectual capacity left smouldering is rhyming.
And fucking people up. Up, up and away.

There’s my sense of justice.