I am not a purist to deny rap out of poetry's realm.
A sentinel I am not nor do I want to be.
No matter, it has taken this language boat by the helm,
Dragged its hull across the globe through mindless seas
And youth were its desperate stowaways.

Like staccato drum beats in Viking ships of yore,
Vibrating through timid spines and ringing their owning heads,
Slaves obey its rhythm, obey its truths, obey its lore.
Nothing else serves requiescats on times of dread
Save for its coarse words colliding together.

Beautiful expletives proliferate its tongue,
Coaxing neutered psyches back to their sperm-spewing selves,
Shouting their battle cries through mucus-filled lungs,
Syncopating with their blinking arterial valves,
These are not idle warnings - this is war!

Many of the language's manic phrases are sure to be
Elevated to mantras in subways and on sidewalks across the land.
Followers of a new religion will chant its decree:
'No one can understand us except us who understands'.
They damn the very ground they stand on.

The lure attracts spectacled drones like me,
Trained in puritanical shit and multi-syllabic mutterings,
Working in jest and living in sobriety,
I dare the soap to wash away my mother-fuckerings.
I join the confederacy and shed my civil clothes.