[ Wp ] write a poem about where you grew up , and your hobbies .

Come take a trip with me, 
 To the triangle of despair, 
 where I'm sure that you'll agree, 
 That it sucks beyond compare. 
 
 It's where the old go to die, 
 Just to the West of old Novi, 
 North of Deuce and East of MJR, 
 For indeed death is never very far. 
 
 We are the most creative of our kind, 
 Raised on hope and tough bovine, 
 And the schools are named without any kind of trying, 
 I wish otherwise but then I would be lying. 
 
 You're a Cougar, you're a Lion, you're a Panther on the spree, 
 But cheer for any one is to fall in love with misery, 
 You're a madman, you're a danger, you're a Methamphetamite, 
 You're a cock-sure fucking loser who'll always lose the fight. 
 
 We've witches and bitches, and snobby fucking riches, 
 the kind you know to hate and hate to love. 
 We've got the cursed corner, one room theater, no foreigner, 
 For we are as plain as those of Abraham. 
 
 We try and we drink, and we drink and we cry, 
 As we wait for the angels and our moment to die, 
 A sinner I'd be and goddamn lying, 
 If I said I did n't want to leave fucking South Lyon! 
 
 
 
 
 

