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Rap from the cafeSo these are words
that we have written
we'll smash your face with our verbs
Anna banana, can he wear your bandana?
Scheme, theme, you're mean
like a moonbeam
I'm on your culdasack
playin' with a hackeysack
Chillin with my homies, they got my back
[But they're not black, that's not a fact]
Hippies & tambourines, that's my scene
I love Ray's Cafe, it was part of my dream
it was really keen no one was mean
They've got a yellow wall and it was
So that was our song
We all get along
We all like thongs....
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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