avant-garde

  

   “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
        With vassals and serfs at my side
    And of all who assembled within those walls
        That I was the hope and the pride.

    I had riches too great to count, could boast
        Of a high ancestral name,
    But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
        That you loved me still the same.”

    Cut to the drama:
    So when rappers and Moore ca’tween Parrish’s door,
        Columned 6-4-3 No’s Redna Street,
    Their hands reached ‘gain to your mind’s 3rd floor
        With a ballroom — not Beale — underfeet,
    “Hoochie Mama,”
    So what’s the probba?

    “How many mo’years have I got to let you dog me around?”
    This be (bluff cities’ elite) behavior discreet?
        And a boquet of loonies to boot…
    Your Orwellian ‘creptitudes hardly have rectitude;
        Hearts from The Fly: Vin. Price treat;
    Georgias’* “peaches” who belong in a pound.
        One hand claps back with no sound
    ‘Tis schizophrenia that is really the hoot. 

                        Thank you and Goodnight Everybody!
                                              — Danny Chicago
    _ _ _ _ _ _
    *GORGIAS: I like your way of leading us on, Socrates, and I
              will endeaver to reveal to you the whole nature of
              rhetoric.
         

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