[Intro]
I got an e-mail
Somebody wants to be talking
Maybe it's a female
Checking the subject header I started gettin’ goosebumps
Three letters jump loose pump nervousness bubbling in
A W M. It said
"Yo, imitator, how could you deny my pain. My red, pale words"
A dirty table of contents
Frail, disturbed under pressure
I'd failed cuz I guess I hadn't heard about the angry white.....

[Verse 1]
That night I had a dream I was running down
Underground
Paths in the forest
Soft dirt swerves
Dusty trail curves up vertically
Running, momentum like a roller coaster
Before it flips
I slip into a hole and I'm half stuck
Legs dangling
Eyes fixed on the forest floor
It's poetry sketched with twigs and sticks
(Just enough to shows someone's face)
"YO IMITATOR"
Guess he'd written it more as physical proof
Scaly feet overlapped (like plaster)
Tessellating
M.C. Escher fading into peach limbs
Chunks of skin
Together like plaster
Fade into posters:
DMX , COUP, and OUTKAST
Patched on the American flag
That was the last verse
And the bloody white flesh was the chorus

[Verse 2]
The forest became a classroom
FLASH!
The scene trembled
The bloody white mess of flesh reassembled at their desks
I'm seeing symbols and signs
Expressed line by line on the overhead projector
Necks reclined. (Before Columbine)
My color obsessed mind had labeled them all simpletons—
Much duller and less grotesque—
But now pimples and lipstick hair
Coalesced with buck teeth and insecure cryptic characters
Tucked deep beneath a frail shell that's far less then lovely
Pale scarred breasts, ugly, dug-up pre-carcass
Dark as their fate was the poetry was
Defending the ones I once hated for their identity
Seated on my left
The artist kept sending me stern faces
The hardest part is I just lost my enemy
Semi-racist rich kids just don't seem so bad
When you know them as a bloody pile of flesh in a poem