And if I had told you a lie about perfection,
How well would this imperfection dwell with you?
Fact it is that I am not God,
Now you know I was not the reason to why all was not odd.
Do you even know God?
Deep rooted or you are fading away with your brags about too much wisdom
You seem to act like one who knows all?
Rootless or footless
Being rootless is my called term for your preexisting judgment that I was a deity from the days of the old,
Times where truth was wrapped up like faces in leaves,
Wrapped up like paps solidified by an extensive touch of air,
Wrapped up in leaves.
Wrapped up like the short man trying to get high,
Wrapped up in weed….
Visiting the insectal habitat,
Resides a group of flying short men who would have nothing to worry about.
Kids would shit in a leaf, swing far off from the reach of the morning bright lights.
These little flying men would have the world to unfold, the faeces the kids left in the green leaves,
To these short men would mean riches,
One enough to make the messenger sack his boss, or go on a payless leave
The truth untold would come off on the very day the Word-smith would hit the bellow with enough words rumbling in his bowels, his gown sweeping reality off faces,
Unveiling the masked,
Giving the world a private view of reality,
Fam must have thought first of ancient Imax.
Rustling behind the master’s shelf would soon be blown out for the world to see,
It would be not like what any has seen.
The poor might open up the ground for the earth to eat the rich,
Woods on board,
Sense sticking to the taste of heavy mental
Be a good giver so after that day you might be standing on your feet when the truth is bond to set out.