Subtle rhymes
are my forte,
raised on Pound
& Belafonte,

succoured on Yates
& then Bukowski,
slept with earphones
tuned to Count Brodski,

the other kids
they loved me so,
for all the places
my rhymin'
dared to go,

taunting teachers,
mocking dads,
laughing at those
silly fads,

& in the playground
I would rap,
my friend Nigel
doing taps,

& as I stepped down
from the bus,
boys would cheer
& shout & fuss,

Rhyme us!
Hit us!
1, 2, 3 ...

Martin's here
all fancy free.