How pretty am I?
They wanna know, how pretty I am,
feeling so fly and talking such jive,
I tell em, I'm pretty as a West African thunderstorm,
all brooding and dark,
hitting so hard and just so precise,
and still they say, how pretty am I?
I tell em, I'm like Winter in Colorado,
all hard and bold, all my lines so striking,
and my skin as black as that snow is white,
they say, how pretty am I?
I tell em, fresh, like Summer in the tropics,
smelling so sweet, like dew and fruit,
and a bit of salt, like I carry the ocean around with me,
they ask me, how pretty am I?
and I tell em, pretty as can be, pretty as you can imagine,
I'm the prettiest thing that ever lived
-This little piece inspired by the man who first called himself the prettiest thing that ever lived, Muhammad Ali, a man who knew a thing or three about the fine art of bragging right. In that vein too, I met yet another man who ain't got no qualms about how pretty he is. I told my barber this evening I'd bring him the picture of him I took when I came for my last cut. He asked how it came out and I gave him a positive "aight." He paused the cut he was doing, turned to me and said quick and sharp, "ain't no one ever take a picture of Bo Butta and have the picture just come out aight." I laughed, thought about it and told him, "yeah, it was fly, I can't front," which was partially true. Bo looked fly as fuck in his leather trench, shaved head and sunglasses, but the picture itself was rather "eh." I'm gonna have to do some cropping and make sure no one misses his flyness.
feeling so fly and talking such jive,
I tell em, I'm pretty as a West African thunderstorm,
all brooding and dark,
hitting so hard and just so precise,
and still they say, how pretty am I?
I tell em, I'm like Winter in Colorado,
all hard and bold, all my lines so striking,
and my skin as black as that snow is white,
they say, how pretty am I?
I tell em, fresh, like Summer in the tropics,
smelling so sweet, like dew and fruit,
and a bit of salt, like I carry the ocean around with me,
they ask me, how pretty am I?
and I tell em, pretty as can be, pretty as you can imagine,
I'm the prettiest thing that ever lived
-This little piece inspired by the man who first called himself the prettiest thing that ever lived, Muhammad Ali, a man who knew a thing or three about the fine art of bragging right. In that vein too, I met yet another man who ain't got no qualms about how pretty he is. I told my barber this evening I'd bring him the picture of him I took when I came for my last cut. He asked how it came out and I gave him a positive "aight." He paused the cut he was doing, turned to me and said quick and sharp, "ain't no one ever take a picture of Bo Butta and have the picture just come out aight." I laughed, thought about it and told him, "yeah, it was fly, I can't front," which was partially true. Bo looked fly as fuck in his leather trench, shaved head and sunglasses, but the picture itself was rather "eh." I'm gonna have to do some cropping and make sure no one misses his flyness.
posted by Flint at 4:24 PM
2 Comments:
So, how old is the right age?
Well, at 20, they are probably still undergrad students, which means dorm room and a realm of issues I've passed over and have no need to revisit. And at 30, that whole biological clock thing generally becomes a much larger issue. So anywhere in between those two points where these are not urgent problems would be just perfect. How are ya again?
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