i.
i'm hip to this game
like lord finesse
others try to test, have the nerve to suggest
but still
couldn't beat me at their best
as i lay all their wackness
to rest.
ii.
the greenness of these leaves, sipping on morning dew,
the sun observed, arm-wrestling with a moon
eager to keep our interest, like a trashy novel
only perused because no thought is required.
iii.
every rhyme i write, verb ignite, fight blight
ferocious shark bite, ultra-rainbow bright
scandinavian height, every rhyme i write
can soar like a kite, blow up like a cache of gelignite
in the first rays of night, sizzle, fizzle like old sprite
my pen is black, fingers snowflake white
a titanic sight, as legions of fans alight,
the last train to paradise
has my lp on repeat,
just to be polite.
iv.
when the sun and moon have a turf war,
fighting over cosmic property with no deed of ownership,
republocrats want to colonize space soon
and turn this beautiful infinity
into a starry-eyed, nada gravity,
off brand version of the earthly cesspit, under whose tidal waves
of biological graves the only action is contraction,
life-form subtraction
each pocket of community a warring faction, bleeding the last gasps
of petro-plankton, with drills that can bore into the unsettled core.
v.
naive, if not flatly foolish
to even think to suggest
that another world is possible
and more than highly logical
in fact
it might be biological
that socialism is better than barbarism,
is a dream i conjure when freed by ganja,
in the tranquil caves of our minds,
we can roundhouse kick the shitstem to the curb
disturb and perturb with every little blurb
end the life of a banker plus crude oil tanker
pretend that mass starvation, cancer epidemics, and foreclosures
are not leaving us sore like a canker
all of this negative reality makin me hanker
for a better time
that never existed
cuz greed has always insisted
on making us twisted
up in knots and such
doing mental double dutch
we are not hip 2 their game
too many rap artists
just in it for the fame, lyrics lame, content a shame
wild beasts that cannot be tamed
always needing someone to blame
for their own lack of skillz
perhaps i could be smashin em, dashin em
in a real battle of wills
cleanin up their seeping verbal spills
that are toxic like valdez
i slay em all with ease, sneeze
and try to cure this rap disease, wheeze
too many emcees,
not enough mics
i exit their shows
but don't have change for the turnpike
on the back road to my brain, change a lane
plus you would find me insane, yet flying high like a crane
dancin with tim leary and missus mary jane
and singing too loud in the rain, never simple and plain
if you take my name in vain
or pretend to feel my pain
i got much to gain
cashin these rap checks, muscle flex
leading the fan base on an epic oj car chase
wondering what's next
as i curse wack emcees 360 degrees
like a voodoo hex
and roll harder and savage smarter
than whip and chain sex
please save me from another text
or facebook invitation
i don't need to join
your silly online nation, like a slave on technified plantation
such things can only lead to frustration, wisdom decimation,
it's time to end this rhyme
and change the radio station.
vi.
when the sun and moon have a turf war,
it's a supa elevated ultimate fighting match
hoarding asteroids and tossing comets
there will be vip seats across the cotton duvet
of the milky way
and we will watch, humbled, a few words mumbled,
as our telescopes groan and get
grumbled.
