Yo yo yo
I got the first blog about academic rap
claptrap deleterious
on foreign ministries, 日, various
snaps like a turtle on the road to find maps
of northeast asia cos the northeast is a major player
like Suleski on Manchurian Youth Corps
I’ll leave you wanting more
in terms of self-expression from anything else you’ll explore
tenure prophylactics to speech hatch mathmatical Greeks
who count words add up to articles the folded-up crease
let’s talk about the chest-bumping culture of the day
no wonder articles don’t get read anyway
the conflict is submerged, until I call Allen Millett
we can bump around go rooting in each other’s archive for a minute
and I’d hobble up impoverished ‘cos the old man is so limber
he’d smash my phase down in tributaries of Han River
of footnotes that flow from his typeface so nimble
how can an old man with a master plan smash down the plucky giver
of prose chunks profane, face up to the name
engraved in the granite of a grim concrete rain-
berm, like girls who offer seats in NYU library
why vary verbal jargon? aren’t octagons poly?
I don’t fight feudal battles after cataclysm ”49
so I decline to add footnotes in this WordPress rhyme
but links can add hyper, and hyper you shall be
all linked to verbal rockets, fight the power, you’re free
to disagree and leave comments with perspectives askew
don’t look at me now, I didn’t vote for Agnew
or David Frost, who looks bewildered as Dick talks a somber line
the POTUS is among us, mensongiste, he’s on the line
but the recordings are half-baked,
and what did he say?
He said to bomb Vietnam, the American way!
But Henry, did you pray to the Pandas you’re cultivating?
Bruce Cumings says you’re Woody Allen with a massive head
Bled of all his stories, Bruce lumbers up to purgatory
to watch Foster Dulles dance a tap to a Homburg beat
vite, und schnell, wie die Ausdruck gemeldet
mit Schweigend, hab ich dich mit Rosen gekleidet
dieses Blog sind nicht Bayreuth, und es sind nicht Frei
die Freiwilligen Körpen hier, am Boden, leiden
und sorgen, bis morgen, wenn die Sonne verstorben
veröffnet, und klagen, wie die Dame ich mage,
wo sind sie in Traum, in ein eignes Raum
die Selbstsuch und mit Wut, an ein anderes gedacht,
macht schnell, mein Herr, die Luft macht Kalt
und Halt —- drop the beat in overtime
this game’s not over, big arcing 3 force the Game 5
like the King in his Sun Tzu shoes, this mist calls to mind
a synthesis of all things that is couched in rhyme
you can’t handle academic rap
this whole post was a trap
some kind of faux announcement of a genre with no map,
no heart, no soul, just some fizz in a bowl
without fishes, no wishes for something different
like sources who snitched once and never saw daylight again
purgatory footnote brings me back again
NOW DROP A ___.____. BEAT ON IT
Adam Cathcart 