Ars Poetica Battle Rhyme for Sucker Emcees
after Adrian Matejka
Who shall not be named.
Who shall not be coveted
beyond whatever
well-mannered Hot 100-
UK List. (You pick.)
Who, keep it real, may not
even exist after this
riff, after this rift. Who,
you may not even claim
ten years from this
line when finally the mic
splits from his mitts—
Check it: anyone can strum
da DUM da DUM (no SHIT)
on a ceremonial lute.
Even a classically trained
orangutan, though
most of you be absolutely
abecedarian. Parakeets:
Dactyls. Basic
Bitches, Simpleton Sarah's
& disco loops. Yo!
you gave up on the moon
for a tweed suit &
elbow patches.
Does your heart also
beat watch-slow,
in perfectly fixed
patterns? Does your stroke
not stroke? Poor you.
Who me?
I be your organic turkey
on steroids. LL—
straight swole, & hard
as hell. Bigger. Blacker.
Deafer, you are auto-
tune & I've already
pressed mute.
I be the Anti-wack
ODB. Big Baby Jesus,
Osiris. Bet your wife
might like it. The anti-
virus to your metrics,
felxin'. Got mine honest.
God-given. Got yours, too.
