Based Wilson

>Twas the night before Racewar, when all through the hood
>Not a creature was stirring, not even bix nood;
>The rifles were laid by the counter with care,
>In hopes that aquittal soon would be there;
>The rioter were nestled all snug in their beds;
>While visions of fried-chicken danced in their heads;
>And I on my laptop, rather beginning to drowse
>Had opened up /pol/ for a long night-shift browse,
>When out on the Boulevard there was something the matter,
>I sprang from my chair to hear AK-47 chatter.
>Away to the windows I flew like a Boer,
>Raised up the shutters and threw open the door.
>The moon on the fog of the new-fallen tear gas,
>Gave a lustre of midday to all the spent brass,
>When what to my wonder appeared under the moon,
>But an up-armored MRAP and eight tiny she-boons,
>With a little white driver so lively like a McLaren,
>I knew in a moment he must be St. Darren.
>More rapid than field-slaves his coursers they came,
>And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
>"Now, Shantay! now, ShaTrondra! now La'Tiqua and La'Dondra!
>On, Felicia! on, Faniqua! on, Keysha and ShaNiqua!
>From the steps of the porch! From the mast of the slave ship!
>Dash away! dash away, to the top of the QuickTrip!"
>As black-fathers that before unplanned pregnancy fly,
>When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
>So to the roof of my QuickTrip the coursers they flew
>With the MRAP full of ammo, and St. Darren too—
>And then, in a twinkling, I heard up on the egress
>The prancing and pawing of each little negress.
>As I closed my laptop, and was turning around,
>Down the ladder St. Darren came with a bound.
>He was dressed all in kevlar, from his head to his shoes,
>And his clothes were all soaked with the blood of the jews;
>A bundle of weapons he had flung on his back,
>And he looked like a /k/ommando just opening his pack.
>His eyes—how they twinkled! And his bloodlust, how scary!
>His face was a rictus, a grinning deaths-head of "merry"!
>His tight little smile was as thin as a blade,
>And the blood on his chin was as red as Kool-Aid;
>He had one of Mike Browns cigars in his teeth,
>And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
>His presence told me that there had been aquittals,
>And that he had been snacking on Trayvon's skittles.
>He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old fellow,
>He looked eager to confiscate Bill Cosby's Jell-O;
>A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
>Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
>He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
>He replenished my ammo; then turned with a smirk,
>And laying his finger, with discipline, near his trigger,
>Up the ladder he rose like to go kill some nigger;
>He sprang to his MRAP, to his team gave a roar,
>And away they flew to the next convenience store.
>But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
>“Happy Racewar to all, and to all a good night!”