Six days into National Poetry Writing Month, and I’m feeling good.
Automatic, truly magic, polysyllabic–
Battle me? That’ll be awfully tragic.
Make ya disappear like 1/4 of Fantastic.
I’ll book your fare, son–you can call me Scholastic.
You’re shaking now, praying now, seeking religion.
Earth’s quaking–wow–amazing how I’m speaking my vision.
My pen’s the sword I’m wielding as I make my incisions.
Like Leno and Morita, set your Course for Collision.
Don’t test me, push me, or ambush me, wack fuckin’ bastard.
I’ll find your town and burn it down, make it a disaster.
And I’m not through. I’ll punish you. Don’t mess with the master.
Sock your goddam mouth like Buckley and you’ll stay plastered.
But it’s alright. If you don’t wanna fight then I’m friendly
As long as you remember to applaud and commend me.
‘Cause if ya dare to sit and stare then you will offend me,
And soon your bitch ass will be gettin’ hunted like Benji.
I may be blind but you can see I handle my business.
I dropped some bombs and I don’t just mean Bailey’s in Guiness.
I don’t foresee a way that you could possibly win this.
So here’s the mic; do what you like now that I’m finished.