The echoing sound of seagulls
Flying above the sea
And leaves upon their branches
Such a wonderful harmony.

Nature's inspiration was it
The reason for his call
From a humble shepherd on the land
To packing out town halls.

Music there within his soul
And words inside his head
Singing was his only goal
His future, good as read.

He sang his songs every day
He was asked to join a choir
Little did he realise
His fame would grow much higher.

He made a massive impact
Wherever he would go
Although he never wrote a song
His voice would steal the show.

He found himself a little band
They became like family
He treated them like brothers
The way that it should be.

Suddenly his fame was over
The result of a tragedy
Sadly he left us
Leaving behind his legacy.

Let me introduce myself,
I’m Paul B.
P to the A to the U to the L to the B.
You say Paul,
I say B.
You say Paul,
I say…

I used to teach English, try to inspire.
Least you can say is, I was a trier.
Love this rapping: it gets my feet tapping,
Even though I ought to be napping.

I write poems like a word ejector,
Keep away you Grammar Inspector!
Jay-Z writes in iambic pentameters,
Making out he’s got no parameters.

Honey G just copies off him,
Oh my God she really is dim.
Does her rap like Barbara Windsor,
Do you remember Needles and Pins-ah?

Me I’m copying off them both,
Though it’s only for a laugh.
Whoops a daisy that don’t quite rhyme,
Another case of Butters Rhyme Crime.

Rap is ******* I often say,
Though it rhymes the poetic way.
That leaves me with one thing to say:
You say Paul,
I say…

Paul Butters

© PB 17\10\2016.

I like dancing and drinking, sometimes fighting and *******, and not necessarily in that order.

Life isn't an equation. It's not a folded napkin, windexed decanter or applebees' reservation.

Sing, smoke, scream. When you laugh, let it boom. Howl at imaginary moons.

Roar to life