Cell phone

That hasn't rang

I hate this fuckin thang

Upon this bar stool I sit

Imbibing a little

Every now and again

In God I trust

When I sip of your troth

I drink of your broth

And taste you upon my lips

And place my hands perfectly

Perfect are the placement of your hips

Ingenius Miles thought of Prince

"I knew a girl named Nicky 

I guess you can say she was..." Hot

Them hooks in crevices girl you gots lots

How many licks to get to the center of?

Your charmed blow pops

I just gots to be your pet rock

Rock this mic like 2Pac when I spit

Be like the G-Unit with Shakespeare in it

At the Latin Quarter rippin it

But without you this poetry I do

Be like words just words

Bermuda Rum with no spirits in it

Bruce Lee with no kick

Or a magician with no tricks

J-Hova with no hits

Done...fuckin done