Careful There, Poet. I Might

If This Were A Movie, I Would Bust A Secret Move So Fierce The Entire Place Would Be Razed To The Ground. I'd Finish With Something Snappy Like "and Don't Forget My Soda, Punk" While I Strolled Off Into The Night.

The World Expected Girls To Pluck And Primp And Put On Heels. Meanwhile, Boys Dressed In Rumpled T-shirts And Baggy Pants And Misplace Their Combs, And Yet You Were Suppose To Fall At Their Feet? Unacceptable.

There Were Few Things Worse Than Being Ordinary, In Evie’s Opinion. Ordinary Was For Suckers.

Agent Jones Switched To The Big Screen And A Grainy Video Of Momo Sitting At His Enormous Desk, A Swivel-hipped Elvis Clock Ticking Behind His Bewigged Head. 'death To The Capitalist Pigs! Death To Your Cinnamon Bun-smelling Malls! Death To Your Power Walking And Automatic Car Windows And I'm With Stupid T-shirts! The Republic Of Chacha Will Never Bend To Your Side-of-fries -drive -through-please-oh-would-you-like-ketchup-with-that Corruption! Momo B. Chacha Defies You And All You Stand For, And One Day, You Will Crumble Into The Sea And We Will Pick Up The Pieces And Make Them Into Sand Art.

And For A Moment, I Understand That I Have Friends On This Lonely Path; That Sometimes Your Place Is Not Something You Find, But Something You Have When You Need It.