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

“Heavenly Divine”

There are no parallel lines above me
So I stand perpendicular
An amazing amount of fortitude
Resides in my testicular
I’m the shepherd
That leads you lambs to the slaughter
The pied piper
That ran away with the Sheriff’s daughter
I’m one of a kind
You can say one in a million
Don’t let me win the lottery
I’ll build homes for the homeless by the billion
Upon my death
I will tap dance like Fred Astaire
And boogie dance
All the way up Heaven’s stairs
But where
Where is Heaven, do you know
I guess knowing is half the battle
Like they say in G.I. Joe
© 2014 Mauricio Rincon

“Ghost Writer”

As I sit on my throne,
I have been known,
To postpone
The depletion of the ozone.

Two scoops of abstract,
A dash of actual fact,
Keeps my sanity intact
As poetry leaks out of my urinary tract.

I’m highly skilled,
The strongest willed,
Main attraction, top billed.
Fuck with me and you may get killed.

Get bodied on paper.
This is my latest caper.
Send you to meet your maker.
I’m known as the dream taker.

Let bygones be bygones.
Love women in little thongs.
My words poke like prongs.
Someone should turn my words into songs.

© Mauricio Rincon 2015