I want to be a rapper, mean and nasty sugar snapper,
And even though I'm fifty, hyper-mean and super thrifty,
I'm gonna wear my jeans all baggy, no more raggy
Clapped out Nikes, super-crikies,
Wear my trousers at half mast, I'll be hip and cool at last,
With my chunky gold medallion. With my stallion? In my galleon?
Fuck, I'll never rhyme medallion!
But in backward baseball cap I'll compose an oldie's rap,
About how I am so cool and not some aged fool,
Resisting pipe and slippers, mug of cocoa, cheese and kippers,
And tell it like it is, here in old and grey show biz,
Where the bitches with the riches want a man in low-slung britches,
So lock up all your mothers, maiden aunts and aged others,
For I'm mean and irresistible, supersonic, tot'ly kistible,
The king of all the ghetto, I'm your puppet man Ghepetto,
Out for trouble, on the double, all day long, I want to bubble,
Could I tell it any crapper? I'm a failure as a rapper,
I need a good sit down, cup of tea and dressing gown,
I'm syndicating, abdicating, throwing in my rapper's rating,
I'm just not having any fun, so please applaud, this poem's done.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved