"Rat-a-tat-tat!" spits a poet in the flats,
Rattling off letters and punctuation, detonating flashes of inspiration,
Launching "smart" bombs with the infra-red sight, blowing up verses on the wind tonight.
It's WW3 and our WMD's are the mushroom-cloud beats of the poets in the streets.
We're ballading the past with a word-atomic blast.
We're squeezing verbal triggers
And letting missiles fly!
Lyrics that we write
© 2009 Jubal Faircloth