You honestly think I give a fuck about what you wore today?
For real, real?
While you were outside of a Starbucks.
Tweeting low-res pics of your hindquarters.
Showing off your crotch blowout.
I was in a fucking mine shaft.
Fading my selvedge.
And reading Glenn O’drama’s bio.
On my iPad.
You city slickers slay me.
You really do.
But I guess if Rozay is a dealer.
And Yeezy is a martyr.
Then y’all are some rugged motherfuckers.
But on the real.
When’s the last time you heard it like this?
Henley and suspenders.
Scragglepuss beard and lived in White’s.
Clay pomade and fucking boulders.
Do they let you bring a shovel to brunch?
Didn’t think so.
Just because I look like a 49er.
Doesn’t mean my swagger isn’t on a hundred.
I’m chillin’ in the Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Kings Canyon.
Prospecting for steez.
You’re drinking a Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Flatbush.
Prospecting for chicks with septum piercings. "
(subtitle: macho can die as far
as i'm concerned.
and worse yet "real") (yeah i 've been reading judith butler,