My poetry is tougher than leather,
Yours is soft and fake like pleather.
I’ll even recite your wack ass poem or whatever,
And make that shit sound a whole lot better.
Go ahead, try and make yourself sound clever.
You’re just a butt pirate fool, you ain’t even on my level.
Any last words, before I make you walk down that plank?
I can either shoot you with a musket, or pull out my shank.
I’ll make you famous, like Billy The Kid or Doc Holliday;
My poetry stay more gangster than yours, on any given Sunday.
You really should go home and pray,
Pray I don’t tap that ass and we both turn gay.
And yes, you are welcome to sit at my table;
As I pour maple on mable that just might enable
You to become stable, ready, willing and able;
As I share with everyone, your falsified fable.
© 2013 Mauricio Rincon