There is no accounting for taste and the one that you left in my mouth is so bitter; I wish I could wash it out.
Frankly, you’ve exploited a means to an end, one that was always my means to defend.
You consider yourself the patron saint of the middle-class, gazed upon by the dead-stare of the uninspired millions, who relish themselves in the worst traits of past generations.
Continue to wade through stagnant chords.
Repetitive tones at dawn.
Spewing gutter-mouth.
But please understand my hate is not exclusive, to black or to blue, to any one pronoun, myself or to you. My hate is like the Sun; it shines on every smiling face, on all the walking-dead and living disgraced.
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