"It's seven days 'til November when I'll be gone for ever so as I unearth and shine a light on September the time of my birth, I give credence to my resting place, samaki. Walking on wine has me pressing for a change of minds that seem to be full of curiosity yet ignorant in learning what they themselves want to teach, society. What of I walking into your home uninvited and faking a desire to want to learn your life only to back stab you with forceful mental games that leave you disassociated with your present self, I'm scrapping. Scratching the glass wall that houses a woman that will visit a homestead with a mind as empty as what its father's sandy walk is, yet its evil steps lead unwanted schemes into what's already known, what a child is. If what you birth into this world faces your emptiness, then the idea that another's lifestyle that your kind openly belittles is also virtuous enough to warrant your safari to see then maybe you need to turn your womb into a frozen place since that's what you claim as science. My mother's golden and scions, filled with sages and scribes of mellow moods some talk of Zion but yours are of empty fools that lack an immediate look of what is love, so hate forms your sires. I have seen clearly what you use to communicate with your kind as I know the latest being True Blood as your only present tower that Mitishamba has downed with all my ciphers and this scribe is that fourth stake into your attempts to preach pious. The first three went to the hands feet and blunting fangs of vampires that hide in walking screens and since daylight isn't your friend, I've rung bells to your bat caves so you can stop hiding in broad nightlight like you brought me Kaya. My resting place doesn't have to be displaced so everything that I've said is for you to find the peace you've given me once in a grave so that you can awake to my warriors who once again, won't buy ya?! Worthless souls without tires stamped with yellow clothes whenever in the presence of my fire and as heat nears my green, I'm pulling a Simon and he says he wants all the art you've stolen as your timers. And because your dead are unworthy of locks, my Bonfires them at the exact Temps and scold any of what you present as living until you leave my sight dead ever after since the seventh midget knows all the secrets to your hair as its my dopey conquerors that bests all your hunters without having to read what you want him buying thus your evil seeds will never be Mayan."
"Ishmael Mitishamba HekimaNimali ~ The Green Vine of no to Wall.E ast"