I feel like Harry Potter in his first potions class,

If the cauldrons were filled with Henny and Dr. Pepper.


The Flip flipped my shit,

Whip this lick to stiff whicks,

Chicks’ thicc,

Mick’s quick,

Shift lift and thrift spliffs

“Hey look it’s Fitz”


Hundreds of honeys and buddies like these whack catacombs,

Dulces and sweeties and rich baritones

In the zone, fusion dancing, prancing

It’s tone confusion glancing like France in

April, that’s my staple Jasmine Tea free,

Suckling maple from Yasmin’s knee, whee,

Hold it there the gun’s a BB,

Huns in a three-piece

Trying for world peace

Dying in whirled fleece.

Cashin’s the mission

That moon juice I’m missin

The dank’s got me flitting

Like dark politicians,

The mark of the Kishin,

Those ladies are kissing

The Fitzy is fitting

You know what you’re missing.


(Props and love to the buddies at the Flip who host and play such dank events. They’re magic. Some of this poetry is fictious, some of it isn’t! Regardless, it was a tight night.)


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