Oriphiel

Some people write poems about stuff without grit,
puppys, sunsets, that kind of shit.

Others write about 'the darkness within',
whiny little bitches who've forgotten how to grin.

Well, I like to write about tits and explosions,
because honestly, those inspire the best of emotions.

Although maybe I do comedy and act cool and punny
only because everything I write turns out funny.

I tried to write Tragedy, a new Hamlet, real sick,
but in my version, Hamlet just gave Ophelia the dick.
In like a day, his fat ass uncle ate himself to death, twas a mad ting,
and then Hamlet was like "lol", and stepped up to become the new king.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern stayed home and tag teamed a hooker,
while Polonius finally shut up, and played himself some snooker.
Fortinbras fucked a snowman, or whatever they do in Norway,
or wherever it was that loser came from anyway.

So I turned to MacBeth, to see what I could do,
and MacBeth ended up giving the witches his brew.
Instead of trying to be king, he just settled for getting laid,
and so there was no debt, in blood, fate demanded to be paid.
His crazy ass wife just lit a fucking roach,
and chilled the fuck out before on his honor she could encroach.

My version of Othello didn't fare much better,
Desdemona blew up Iago, then put his ashes in a letter,
mailed that shit to Iago's wife,
and told that bitch to move on with her life.
Sorry, Emelia, but your boy was a shit can.
Next time you wanna get hitched, get thee to a real man.

I tried writing an original, to get how Tragedy jives,
about a guy with as many cocks as a cat has lives,
but he couldn't jerk off, since his fingers were knives.

So, yeah. Like knife guy, I just couldn't cut it,
so I said "Fuck it,"
and now here I am,
writing while eating ham,
at 2:30 in the morning,
what the fuck even is my life?

__________________
----------------------
|---Mic's Albums---|
----------------------
-----------------------------
|---Deafbox Industries---|
-----------------------------