/lit/ - Literature

Lest you on crow or humble pie should sup, let's
Attend as I freestyle heroic couplets:
Unlike you hip-hop poetasters', mine
Reveal a perfect rhyme to end each line.
Your verse like empty condoms, full of fail;
But mine a scorpion with sting in tail
To kill with such economy or thrift
(Mark now that pleonasm, says Dean Swift)
That not one word is wasted, nor is time,
When meter runs as perfectly as rhyme,
In such a neoclassical design
That you might think that Homer writ my line.
Chiasmus my device, my crib a grotto,
My whiteness might make Shakespeare seem mulatto,
My learning vast in Greek as well as Latin.
(Sugete meam mentulam: put THAT in.)
When Thebes' King from Tiresias sought succour,
The blind seer to him shouted "Motherfucker!
Seekst thou to know who's truly the most dope?
Which Gangster most Original? A. Pope."

Not to interrupt your match, but this just confirms my suspicion that Alexander Pope was the Original Gangsta.

Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored.
Light dies before thy uncreating word.
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
And universal darkness buries all.