Mo betta

NOTE: This is not a poem. It’s not really much of anything, really. But I walked on top of a dead person yesterday. The Hawaiians believe that any person not of royal blood or distant family is not allowed near the grave of an ancient King. Or else the bad spirits will curse you. I am actually of royal blood – Irish, but still royal – so I do not believe that I was affected. At least, that’s according to the custom.

Billytick. Bumm dumb brick. Bricka bracka. Tick, tick, tick.

It’s like gangster wrongst the tomatoes in the garden. Tricks in the alley and the pimp is Uncle Sam. That mofo gets around.

On the shores of Panama. Baghdad. Mali. Back that ass up, Haiti. Show me what you workin’ wit, Tripoli. He’s been everywhere.

And my feet are covered in blisters.

The answer is cash. Just throw that cash at em, and ‘ell all go away.

Grrr. Arrgh. Potatoes. Tomatoes. Unicorn blended Kona bean. Jamaican jungle Kingdom reigns fire upon the masses.

Palm fronds. Day after day goes by and the salad rots in the refrigerator. This guy is scared of the tropics. It’s very frightening.

Boo. Grr. Arrgh. When did I become a ghost?

Hang loose brother, and don take non of the mana back wit you to the mainland. Kapu means kapu, can’t you read?

I am the shadowy figure of a dead man’s haunting the living. I have been disturbed. I have been asleep. Time to take some elephant tranqs. Maybe get drunk outta my mind. Then I will sleep for another 5,000 years without some fucking tourist disturbing my sleep.

They didn’t know no betta. But they learn mo betta. They learn. Shit.

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