Thursday, March 17, 2011

Poetry is a Rap

Any old or young fools who say poems are for wussies
Got no clue what the Bard’s words do for the pussies
Seems like people gotta dis what on my blog I’m trying
Using my poems to keep the inner me from dying
Y’see I’m proud all my homies are dead poets
They told me all about life don’t you know it
So rhymers step up and fend for yourself
Step back poem haters or we’ll put you on the shelf
Gimme any more of your illiterate crap
You’ll wash your head after I pop my ass in your cap

My main French man was Francois Villon
He stirred la merde and kept it going on
Stabbed a priest in the nuts over some hos
Wrote his best words waiting on the gallows
Unknown in his time though people now rave
Booted from Paris into an unmarked grave
In English Keats keen words are truly sublime
Like Biggy or Tupac cut down in his prime
Rapping out odes in the brief candle of his youth
He taught truth is beauty, and beauty, that’s the truth

All us English majors, there’s one thing we knew
Life is too short, so do what’s true to you

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