Illicit Poetry: Fired Up

So, this gut feeling got me illin’

Making me feel like I could make a killin’

But we both know that isn’t happenin’

Cuase they caught me at work straight grillin’.

They used to like me, used to be fond of me,

But now all of a sudden they grin, and charge a fee.

Who do you think I am a manatee?

Don’t make me pull out the pink slip and gut thee.

So now I’m here,

In front of my boss, the queer,

Presenting facts like an overseer,

Just to keep a silly job, get outta here!

Don’t make me come at you like a bear without a snickers,

Cuase you know, I do stuff like House of Pain slickers,

With the beat and the lyrics of Shit Kickers.

But, hey it is what it is, sometimes it’s better to be a cherry picker.

Just break out with that 40 ounzer,

And spit lyrics like you’re on the Pullitzer.

So when you decide to fire me, I’d be sipping on sizzurp…

Watching them models on TV scissor.


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