Dear Dzhokar,

I wrote you but you still ain’t callin’
I left my terrorist cell, pager, and homephone at the bottom
I sent you two pressure cookers back in autumn,
You must not-a got’em.
There probably was a problem at the post-office or somethin
The F.B.I or D.H.S opens ‘em now and again.
But anyways, Fuck it, what’s been up?
Man, how’s your brother?
My girlfriend’s infertile man,
We’re gonna’ adopt a Chechen.
If we get approved for a boy, guess what imma’ call him?
I’mm’a name him Dzhokar.
I read about your home country too, I’m sorry.
My dad killed himself too, when the ruskies came in the ‘40s
I know you probably get this everyday:
But I’m your biggest fan.
I even got that underground shit you done as Zimmerman.
I got a room filled with Chechen flags an Qu’rans, man.
I like that shit you posted on Twitter, shit was cash.
Anyway, I hope you recover man, blast me back,
Just to chat, truly yours, your biggest fan
This is spam.