I know you, rider. Gonna miss me when I’m gone. Your inner workings are plain to me, sexual partner. My absence will be keenly felt within you.
I Know. You Rider. I, a boy named Know, have been orphaned in the jungle and raised by gorillas, leading to a strange yet catchy way of speaking English, and have met a person called Rider.
I? No! YOU, Rider! You ain’t pinning his death on me, bitch. It was your machete.
i know you rider
gonna miss me
(when i’m gone) I am Emily Dickinson, and that last part’s a lie; you cannot miss me because I will not be leaving my room.
I know, you rider. I’m aware, Motorcycle Mikey. You don’t need to tell me again. I know.
Is there a point to this?
English is a fascinating language.
You’re done, slugger.
Works on contingency? No! Money Down!
I know you rider gonna miss.
Me, when I’m gone . . .
(Your backstage hospitality terms are not likely to be acceptable. Please observe this photo of me backstage at a compliant venue, at which I will be performing in lieu of yours, satisfied with all of the desired comestibles and women of lax character to which an artist of my caliber is entitled).