| Dear Sirs
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| If the pavement comes alive on Flatbush Ave with toothy smiles
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| Comprised of traffic cones and manholes become eyes
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| And birds burst into flames while singing Satan’s praises
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| And fold into the sky and rain down ashy danger
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| If every office empties and all slaves walk in dazes
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| To a pool of liquid money where they bathe blissfully naked
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| And drugs no longer taunt me and flooze around my conscience
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| And every woman beating rapist is securely in their coffins
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| If every open hydrant in a Brooklyn time summer moment
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| Is opened up by cops and folds out into an ocean
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| And rent is paid by bread literally and parking isn’t paid for
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| And food stamps can be planted and childhoods can’t be damaged
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| If fire could power space ships that safely ship the creators
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| Of dynamite and gun powder to the graves of all who faced it
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| And the slurping nerf of bureaucrat life and bean counting slave owners
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| Is twisted in on itself til they shave off their own faces
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| If all the coke and crack in the nation is collected in a top hat
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| And force fed to the children of every CIA agent
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| And dust heads get an angel and an acres worth of rainbow
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| And the projects turn to clouds and the stupid aren’t so proud
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| And the snivelling grimace mongrels of infected money slobbing
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| Pesticrats ignite into a brilliant beam of light
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| And mercy is the rule, and the exception’s mercy too
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| And the desert comes in Brooklyn and the President goes to school
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| Time flows in reverse, death becomes my birth
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| Me fighting in your war is still, by a large margin
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| The least likely thing that will ever fucking happen, ever |