“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.

I had riches too great to count, could boast
Of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you loved me still the same.”

Cut to the drama:
So when rappers and Moore ca’tween Parrish’s door,
Columned at 6-4-3 Civil War Street,
Their hands reached ‘gain to your mind’s 3rd floor
With a ballroom — not Beale — underfeet,

“Hoochie Mama,”
So what’s the probba?
"How many mo’years have I got to let you dog me around?”
This be (bluff cities’ elite) behavior discreet?
And a boquet of loonies to boot…
Your Orwellian ‘creptitudes hardly have rectitude;
Heart from "The Fly": Vin Price beats;

And Georgias’* 905 peaches who belong in a pound.
One hand claps back-to-back with Nixon copt' sound;
Carpetbagging ain't just about loot —
I, die Eule, counts rounding up hoot.

Thank you and Goodnight Everybody!
— Danny Chicago
_ _ _ _ _ _
*GORGIAS: I like your way of leading us on, Socrates, and I
will endeaver to reveal to you the whole nature of
rhetoric.


© W.D. Brindle
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Home: www.gobi-igloo.com
Work: www.esperancesp.com