Duckey face yullower than ever. I know she born high-yulluh but cheez-on man, she face ain’t right at all. I don’t know how after all these decades you can still love her like so.
Cuz the way I does see it, she shoulda dead years ago. Her legacy crush wit she plastic bones in a toxic tomb in whatever left of old Emerson Town. Long gone.
But look she here now, Jesus be Christ. Fucking resurrection. Face swell-up, reeking of ass, eyes bulging and bloody. Disgusting. And you have the audacity and sheer nerve to bring this nasty piece a-ting in the hotel bath with we? Nasty is what it is.
Is like you don’t know what romantic is. You know how much hotel cost in Barbados? I here at Seacrest Hotel, paying exuberant tourist prices for towels and fucking strawberries from Miami, I must be di ass.
I said do not bring she in this bat ,woman!
Look, wunna fine as ass but I having regrets now. Hear me.
We promenading along New Orleans and you say you miss yuh old house. I watch you cry all typa ugly in front the new water plant, the ghost of your old village hissing, and I stand next to you like a proper gentleman. My lips seal when by some miracle you find Duckey mash-up body, wing broken and get all typa feels.
Valentine’s Day now and we in this bath, wunna sweet bubbies covered in soap and I can’t get buddy hard cuz Duckey there staring at me. And I can’t tell if it she or the hotel water that making my skin itch so.