Baby, I'm thankful for the air, you breathe the food, you eat; baby, I'm thankful I can see you seeing me knowing that your lap is luxury. That what you speak is pure poetry. Baby, I'm thankful for your profile. For both your thumbs and every finger, I'm thankful for your eyes that gaze that glaze that graze that last and linger. I'm grateful for your sound mind, your tastes displayed. My heart rings for you as your face's a jewel. I've prayed to God to take this love away, chalk it up to dust and lust. She can scream, she can cry, she can look you in the eye while you both lie, she can say she'll love you until you die, when every day we all wonder why you stay. Don't throw shade on my serenade when I manufacture marinade for my baby, walkin' swaggin' stately my Don my Trump my Breaking Window In that house, I'm your real widow, the only tended light. Because she don&
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).