How dost Shakespeare maketh all his words?
Dost he pieceth together morphemes and phonemes?
Or dost he picketh randomly in a game of pure chance?
Manners maketh man, and poems maketh the soul,
And soul maketh the essences of the greatest men of all:
It's us, thou knowest not?
I shalt now rant about the people,
Who corrupts the words of mine language, so despicable!
What was once words of praise and beautiful wonder,
Are now used to imply that thou wants to breed with thy companion's mother!
Beats on, yo
Skirt off, ho
Imma rap my skillz
Now, Mr. West got no direction,
Irony's when he's even got one on his name.
That's some stupid game
He's winning!
90's rap is the sh*t! Don't ya say otherwise!
Or else, Imma beat yo ass and make it swell
Like Kim's
Just shut up, you f*cker!
You got no swag!
Little fag,
Imma drill mah d*ck on yo mama's ass!
Imma get you a front-row seat,
Watching yo dad get cucked
By me!
Haha, you f*cking wanker....
Why doth rappers rap like this?
Barbaric, primitive, violent, insolent.
No form, no poetry,
Not even an ounce of creativity,
I'd gladly cut mine self to the afterlife, where at least the angels sing with form and grace.
Manners maketh man, and poems maketh the soul.
'Tis thine words that you possesseth that unable you to growl.
To speaketh is to be bequeathed utmost responsibility,
So mind thine words now, and thou shall speaketh politely.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Of A Count
PoetryThis book is not suitable for audiences with zero percent sense of imagination and a mental age of two and below. I'm not really a great poet, just a guy who knows how to hold the pen and write the twenty six letters of the alphabet. But I like thin...
