He comes with a sonnet ’bout South American macaws
but he got no cause
to sing that.
He comes with quatrain verse ’bout Grecian tragic romance
but we can’t dance
to that kinda jive.
He spoons us the prerequisite vocabulary,
a synopsis of verse structure and use,
and the bits of little-known trivia we’ll need
to comprehend his flow-
and I’m yellin’ “No, boy! No, no, no!
You makin’ a mess of the thing!
I see a thousand years of red tape
comin’ out of y’mouth,
but where’s you?”
I find myself thrown in the street after that
’cause he’s got a book to sell
but I’m writin’ him a letter first thing in the morn
about why it ain’t doin’ so well.
Because people ain’t zombies, they don’t want y’brain
but they do wanna walk in y’shoes,
and if you do ’em right with y’funky-fresh heart,
then they’ll do right by you.