LOOK FOR FAULT IN EVERY THING ABOUT YOU
AND TURN A CHEEK TO ALL YOUR ACCOMPLISHMENTS IN LIFE...
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though,
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I will fight no more
forever.
A repetitious african jungle beat with an obnoxious chanting of obscenities and movements resembling the dry heaves. Originating from the lowest form of human savage on earth, the black gangster or in their primitive language, gangsta.
