Rap is not
“the death of poetry”,
rather the honing of tools
poets have used for centuries:
rhymes welding lines together;
staccato stanzas stuffed with perfect words;
themes to resurrect to soul!
A well wrought rap
is Dickinson on steroids
leaving Higginson gasping.
Is Frost in the woods he thinks he knows,
clear-cutting detritus with his chainsaw.
Is a rapier in the gold-medaled-grip of a fencer
dueling a dull ax in a drunks shaky hand
as he slurs doggerel in sloppy iambic pentameter.
No worries mate!
Poetry is – wrapped – in safe hands
and the Muses smile.