By:paul goree 2013
There’s a tale that I must spin. Something uncommon-history.
Many snare and fight alone, while suffering a mental storm.
Highest pride so unattainable-what you do is known most well…like shadow friends passing a pipe-em’ ghost sure know how to swell it up…
The ghost writer he writes-from a common point of view- weaving words of true abduction, the ghost writer writes (yes he writes, oh yeah he writes).
The ghost writer, he writes, casting spells among the alone, in and out daze em’ friends find out -how the ghost writer writes (yes he writes oh yeah writes)
There’s no place decency, what will sell you can’t presume. Like the man who walks asleep, in the bank he has a dream. Wake up in a sunny haze, pockets of another filled-yes em’ ghost know how to swell…
It’s no voodoo con you through some like it hot, em’ turn up the burn…and still the within some selfish rage, God forgives the righteous man, who’s right- to tell what others find in paper backs….(He writes, the truth, as lived, then spins it fiction -ohh yeah yeah- to save the honor and merit the ghost writer writes…)
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