I was yapping out rap like a bad-assed pan handler,
yeah my planet smashing rapping had ’em leaping on seats,
my coalescing essence always jacking up the heat,
my effervescense escalating, neat and sweet,
leaving battle slammers squeaking like gamblers in shackles,
like blubbing mamas babbies who have smashed their rattles
Bro I was ripping out lyrics that Meek Mill couldn’t beat.
Yo Bro, if you wanna be replete, if you wanna be supreme
you need to to lead the league, leave the sheep, beep in your sleep,
so heed my seamy secret, it’s a little known fact,
only when your heart cracks like a rat that ran out of scraps,
only when your soul snaps
like a Sally from the Alley of the half-price sad sacks,
scrabbling for a bag, playing it bad, running on half-mad;
only when you’re low as a bro can go,
only when you’re low can you carry the show.

My kids were raised in the ‘hood in gangsta tradition,
running guns and drugs, pimping and killing and racing for perdition,
trading in sin, inking their skin with the enemies’ kin,
when Rev Run hit the city, riding pillion with Christ, fire in his eye,
peddling his religion, sidling into minds,
slamming Hallelujah with his criminal might.
Now Zimmon’s on a mission, Orland joined a choir,
Zeelin is a priest and I’m queuing for confession.
My rhyme is a mess. I’ve failed my final test
since the one word I can find to rhyme with confession
is
regression.

This carefully crafted terrible poem was written for Chelsea’s Terrible Poetry Contest, with apologies for submitting such a long rap.

©Jane Paterson Basil