Hey errybody, it’s me T. Hume, The Humester, Humestone, and T-Dawg Roosesvelt. You’re probably wondering why I gathered you all here. We’re here today to talk about practice. We talkin’ ‘bout practice. Practice makes perft. Practice makes perfet. Practice makes perfect. See what I mean? Today we will be practicing analyzing poetry. That’s what the suits say we have to do. Boss man makes me come down here every day and leave my children to teach some whiteys some damn poetry. What you need poetry for anyway? I live on the streets! I got real problems! When I lose your papers it’s because I use them as a blanket at night.
An’ what you gotta worry bout? Too much motherfucking choclate in your milk?! Whether your milk gonna expire by next wedday? Whether your white asses be lactose intolrant? Makes me sick. Milk does. I’m lactose intolrant too. But guess what?
Now the gov’ment want to tell me I ain’t fit to raise my kids! They tryin’ to take my kids ‘way from me. All becuz I pee sitting down? That ain’t no crime! My wife says she has to do it so I should too. Frankly, I agree with her. It’s unfair that I have a penis and she don’t. That’s why when we make love she hits me. Sometimes she just hits me when I don’t listen to her. See that scar goin cross my eye? She give me dat so no otha woman will want me, so I won’t go off cheatin on her. She say we scar crossed lovers.
But onto the poetry!
Onto these words written by mofos with their white ass hands who never felt cold steel like this right here. Whose hands never felt the life drain outta someone. Sarah why you cryin?! You ain’t the one with a wife who been lacin your food with salt. My blood pressure through the roof! Sarah if one of those tears hits this desk you gonna be here all week scrubbing.
Here are the poems.