Again my targets are fuddled started callin me confusion- thought he said Confucius? Fuck it, and more insist on detailing thoughts nonexistent- pinning them on my skull, grinning as if they won solo the olympics. Wanna-be? oops, reverted to negro and you prophets just blow- whats worse? don't get paid for it. Charity orgasm, god your slow. I expect retaliation & maleficent post-it notes. Whats really funny? They await my submission, only to suffer the erosion of their golden articulation. Stramash done parody style, but they mean business. Me? smile while donning the silly-ass-hat pleasantly mocking civility, feeling an omens press and their half-ass pretentious stratocracy. Mr. politician goes ultra-totalitarian rapturous while conducting stratification- quite annoyed by my smashin strathspey eyein the kilt, mistaking me for a woman. In the end, he sure ain't a strategian, but makes more ruckus than my red nose and platinum cymbals gone pagan. Waltz with haste, submit my punchline; this dance comic & somewhat divine, donning the sacred neon jester sign- and you expected me to resign? Good one.