I am the one‚ don’t weigh a ton Don’t need a gun to get respect up on the street (okay) Under the sun‚ the bastard son Will pop the Glock to feed himself and family (sheesh) By any means‚ your enemies‚ my enemies We wet them up like a canteen (damn) The yellow tape surrounds the fate Don’t have a face‚ so now you late‚ open the gates (god damn) [Verse 1] Great‚ eliminate like ElimiDate (ooh) Hey‚ young boy had to penetrate (ooh) Face‚ young boy done caught a case (ooh) Bang‚ now his mama livin’
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“Shoteka! Get down from there!” My mother yelled to me‚ but I wasn’t listening. You can’t really blame me‚ I was five‚ and too busy trying not to fall out of the tree I was climbing. Up I climbed‚ trying to get to the top‚ everyone had said it was impossible. I was going to prove them wrong. That was Eleven years ago. When I was young and innocent. But I would soon learn that all good things come to an end. Which is what happened on June 8‚ 1830. 1830 I was weaving baskets with my cousins and
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My whimpering children covered behind me as their father hollered‚ "You call this dinner?" Grabbing the pot of homemade spaghetti sauce that I’d carefully slaved over all day‚ he whacked it on the hot plate‚ sending a stream of sauce skywards that splattered the ceiling. Smashing his fist through the wall‚ he left the house‚ slamming the door behind him. During our year of courtship‚ he never once showed this dark side. Yet once we married‚ his temper reared its ugly head. The first
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lightly against my leg‚ the seizures have been getting more frequent as they are‚ unfortunately‚ one of the side effects of the first stages of the plague. I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to the side suddenly. "Hello?” I call out in hopes of encountering another human being. I hear faint‚ scratchy muttering and scurrying of some sort across the floor. And begin to feel on edge my hand goes to my back pocket where my switch blade is held‚ a prized possession of mine
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people want others to agree with their opinions. Poetry is the perfect vehicle to spread these opinions. One such poem is “The Call” by Jessie Pope‚ and one could almost consider it an understatement to call this poem opinionated. World War I changed the way humans fought each other‚ changed the way people viewed war‚ and changed literature forever. If there is one thing “The Call” by Jessie Pope is known for‚ it is its extremely jingoistic message. The poem is unabashedly pro-war‚ and it wants everybody
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We were searching for the gods to guide these bronzed defiant soldiers-- who are ready to defend this Mecca in the honor of my father. Our attack on Cairo’s ghost face warriors has to be planned and executed. A revenged annihilation of any person’s attempting to interrupt my father Mansa Musa’s legacy‚ steal our wealth of gold‚ or our over flowing herds of animals. My husband Amun will lead our royal army to victory! Amun‚ my love‚ what will be our plan? When will we avenge my father’s name? How
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There once was a boy who was only 15 years old and has been smoking cigarettes for 5 years. He thinks his father hates him because they don’t do anything together. Because of this‚ the boy disrespects and disobeys him as a way to show rebellion from his father. The next day‚ the boy comes home from a party and his dad sits him down to talk because the boy smells like cigarettes. His dad tears up and says‚ "Remember 2 years ago when I came home from work really happy?" And the boy replies‚ "Yeah‚
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I have to call the police. I have to save Tad. The chant was a continuous drone in her head‚ causing a headache but giving her hope. In the heat of August‚ the car was a boiling pot‚ cooking them slowly but steadily. Donna fought her weariness as she went over her
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The Call of the Wild is the story of a St. Bernard-Scotch Shepherd mix named Buck. Buck had it all: a loving owner‚ a loving family‚ land in which to roam‚ and an overall royal lifestyle. That is‚ until one day‚ an untrustworthy gardener named Manuel wrongfully sold him. Buck started off thinking that he was going for a stroll‚ but ended up being tied up and thrown into a baggage car headed for California. Once Buck was sold again in California‚ he was thrown down‚ choked‚ had a brass collar forcibly
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who had been there for me. Has shaped me into the man I am today and without him‚ I would be nothing. Now he’s gone‚ I am nothing. Consumed with darkness and hatred‚ which has ignited my anger towards the men who poisoned my father or as the devils call him ‘King Willie.’ As I walked through the forest‚ I reminisced about how father and I would look for the best trees for the mill workers. Tears start gushing down my face like a waterfall. I clenched my teeth and started running. I ran like there
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