Your penis is a beheaded rooster, that only crows when the sun goes down. "Hoodoo'd", Ernesto Mercer they are cobra-heads, charm'd by your words. sistagurls too jones'd to hear the warning of maraca beads; throwin' themselves against hollow wooden walls that confine them. the interlockin' horns on your tongue shakin' like rattle snake tails; when warnin' off disturbance. you became the spitting cobra; the ringhal, who's venom's dispersed into eardrums: the eye of the conscious sista blind'd by rhetoric and vibe, I useta think them gurls were too stupid to know what was good for them. but now I know, they're too jones'd to know your mojo. sistagurls makin' pearls from the salt in their tears, they're threadin' pearls across their nerves like abacus beads; calculatin' the time it'll take before these sistas reach their breakin' point. they are gypsies in a dark room; where libation funk fumes through your lips, like compression from a punctured aerosal can. they don't hear the warning in your tones/ sistagurls, jones'd beyond rationality. they don't know the jones is a griffin shot off the onyx sheet, where suns rise & set themselves. you don't know how long before the jones is gone, and ascension reverse itself. won't be long before she questions you like the riddlin' sphinx; waitin' for a wrong answer to confirm her suspicion before she goes in for the kill. 'cause anger make a hoodoo'd sistagurl a blackwidow; a predator after her street charmer: the brutha, who's magic don't change the fact that he's still mortal.