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Guest Rustic Monk

You're A Whore [Language Warning]

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Guest Rustic Monk

You’re A Whore

By: Gabriel Duncan

You make me want to whip out,

My notebook and best you.

Cause when I write,

I write the type of shit that,

You can’t do.

I’ll have it coming out like it’s been practiced for years;

But the shit I wrote yesterday will have you breaking up in tears.

‘Don’t speak in metaphor no more,

I want to make it perfectly clear.

The games must cease.

You’re leaving me out of breath.

It’s been building up for too long,

I need to get it off my chest.

Don’t use my name in conversation.

And I won’t use yours in mine.

It’s fucked up that you’d diss me to my girlfriend—

In front of my behind.

Show the world that thing you call style and grace.

In the meantime, wipe the cum—the smile off your face.

Walk like you’ve got two balls,

And talk the shit straight to my face.

You wanna talk about dirty?

I knew you less than thirty,

Before you let me in your back door.

It’s just another case of conflicts in naivety

Convictions contradicted

You’re the bastard of your own stupidity.

Hickory, dickery,

Cocky-lickery, trickery’s

Not cuttin’ it

You’re fronting it

No doubt you’re getting it

from every dick in town

Tricking quicker,

Than any cock-licker

Floor’s littered

With withered rubbers

Tom, Dick and Harry’s brothers

They slither on your covers

And you still say you ain’t a whore.

Instead you duck and cover,

Running further and farther,

Than you’ve ever run before.

That was a metaphor,

I meant you were whoring.

Ignore the bluntness,

You’re getting rutted,

Even as I write this.

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