The DJ had thoughtfully handed out some custom made caps.
I found a few choice tunes.
A hundred times these tunes had spoken to me.
The abuse of power.
It happened everywhere.
And didn't the DJ know it?
He had been locked up in Venezuela.
Brazil didn't take kindly to his mind-controlling lyrics.
And Argentina said good riddance.
Without much ado, the prophet read with much gusto.
More generals than doormen, tear-gas everywhere,
there’s gold braid enough here to carpet a whorehouse,
gridlock on the streets, and a coup in the air.
Hey, just an Eye, with an odd tale to tell,
at a pulp writers’ gig at the Mambo Hotel.
But outside pal they are guilty as hell.
What happened next was anyone's guess.
I looked up, and Anwar was fucking both Najib and Mahathir.
I also had a floating effigy of Anwar made up.
He was up for buggery charges under both Najib and Mahathir's government.
He was up for buggery charges under both Najib and Mahathir's government.
He was never going to be PM, not while these two creeps were around.
Word got around, feeds were sent to NYT, CNN, and BBC.
Mahathir was outraged.
Najib knew he could do better under an Anwar government.
And the next day's headlines read that Mahathir had eventually handed over the powers to Anwar.
JG's poetry had this effect on people.
It was a rap.
Money and booze flowed and the Vietnamese partied like there was no tomorrow.
(Due to the Ministry of Censorship of the Vietnamese Communist Government, the next five hundred words have been redacted.)
