King Tut (Rap)

A spoken-word piece about itself! This one’s experimental.


Let me tell you ‘bout a boy
You’re about to know:
flow so gold
you’ll suppose his prose
is a nose exposed
to the woes of the common cold.

But nothing’s common
of this Tutankhamen!
No keeping calm and
no sleeping on him,

Come March, he’ll march
you’ll be keeping on him–
The young star start-up peach,

A dog on the streets
caught in the Middle East
As it feasts
On scraps, perhaps
that might fight the police

Okay. Okay.
Maybe not that far.
But those bars exist to
ignite within
the gin-sippin’ gentleman
and Benjamin-seeking
The want to stay hot,
be caught
to whack tracks that this poet lacks brakes on,
that these ramshackle crack-snorting hoes’ ass shakes on,

Whatever you call him.
The name game doesn’t change
how I enthrall ‘em!

I’m balling!
Calling shots left and right,
and I guess tonight
I announce my intent to bounce
My way out
this hole that I’ve been stuck in,
A poet, author, rapper Tur-duck-en
and I’m fuckin’

My zeal, my buck and
My dear I fear
This is taking too long
Let’s end the song.

But keep an eye out
for open-mic night
rap fights and
dry mouth,
as I smoke weed
and you find me,
where I’m meant to be
and at peace.

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