Chains by James Patterson
Chains are for slaves, Rings are for kings In a fat back pork-barrel society, I’d rather live off of collard greens It seems Everybody’s working for the weekend—the “Freakend” Twerkin Jerkin’ Shakin’ Showin’ off they ass but there’s no toilet AND I’M PISSED This is to the penis-less poppas who push-out playboy pin-up daughters and chicks who push-up on sick-minded simps who sip grey goose, treat them foul and never look them in the eyes cause’ they only want a chicken-head for her breast and thighs Still they all leave the coop and go back to dorm rooms to do the do and wash their dirty laundry too. The rinse cycle attempts to pour anew, But their brains are already washed and tumble dried. Their minds are all crispy, golden, and fried. And the cycle keeps going on a line that keeps growing Every girl wants to be a Queen But some rather look for rooks than Kings. Every boy wants to be a King But gets played like a Pawn Polished up and shining like a Knight ‘til dawn Everybody’s stuck in bed sleepin Too tired to listen to their parents preachin’ 19
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