Flashy dresser, woman caresser,
you thought you owned the world.
With fake gold rings and teeth,
you sure looked a million bucks.

You had special pants you made yourself,
front access protected by velcro fly.
All the skanks and sluts knew you by name,
or at least, by your pride and joy.

You swaggered the streets like a lion,
and you were a tigar in bed.
Horses watch you on the Discovery Channel,
probably matched you to a gazelle.

With a fine trimmed beard and a afro from God,
your hair probably weighed about 80 lbs.
The fake gold necklaces hung to your navel,
but that wasn't the hung thing women looked at.

Pimpin' Big Paul earned his name,
but wouldn't call himself a gigalo.
Lean and mean, drug-taking machine,
with manhood matching a drumstick.

Pimpin' Big Paul died one night,
the way he always wanted to.
Stoned out of his mind, with a woman,
he gave it to her until he blew a head gasket.

The coroner said he had a anuryism,
others say you loved women to death.
But the women of Crocker and Baines,
erected you your own personal graffiti statue.

12/27/2003

Posted on 12/27/2003
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