"busta" poems
Monk tinks tonight
fine glasses clink
convivial banter
bubble pop blink
in breathing rooms
bit woofed and stirred
the smoke mint sound
we dare exhale
Monk swings about
a bell do ding
the huey blues
bird bops on wings
hips juicy moves
rubby mounds wet ****
slow drum rolls blow
dance steady bump
Monk rocks the house
the clock do tick
me feets be tappin
gonna busta trick
key ******* bounce
mouths all agape
we gettin down
like crazy apes
Monk’s muzik rides
a sonorous beam
levitatin hipsters
to places unseen
gosh groovy tunes
a **** good gig
we all stoked up
Monk we do dig
Monk played alright
some swingin tunes
Happy B Day Monk
you over the moon
Thelonious Monk
(October 10, 1917 - February 17, 1982)
Thelonious Monk
with John Coltrane
Trinkle ******
10/9/13
Suffern
jbm
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
its tha return of tha gangsta thanks to ya
too many blacks out here livin' they life in fear
families seeing tears problems tier
blurry visions make it hard to see clear my dear
cant get through the atmosphere
feel me it's the return of the gangsta I'd like to thank ya
Malcolm for giving me the principles and reaching a few people's
opening minds to grinds and you'll find
me chilling on the corner puffing marijuana yep I'm a gonna
in society outlaw outcast put my thoughts on blast
techs is humming cuz I smell war coming armies drumming
po folks crying innocent victims dying
for no apparent reasons caught in daily treasons which gives me a reasons to put an end to Americas sin but too many folks stuck in
a fantAsy called reality in actuality
they plotting our burials G
troops overseas findings empty caves so the government can make saves war profiteers racketeering gangsters hustlers
exposing lies don't be a busta like a Douglass no diamonds in my cutlass couldn't move so I had cut less people out of my circle I'm nerdy as urkel yea my intellect carefully selects
what's real from reality I envision myself as well as my enemies in a fatality so battling me I was made for war built off the backs of my ancestors sore yea white house was built by the slaves for white supremacy kind of irony they sayin' my folks was lazy?
worked up from Sun up to Sun down
I can't believe my folks walking with they heads towards the grounds
how bout we get mad and let off gun sounds pound for pound
you know they can't hang with us
that's why they had to make laws against us
scared of rise and corruptions ain't a surprise through the eyes
of real people who realize pain ain't a substitution for happiness bliss
I guess I was sunkissed
by wisdom mouth open hail Mary entered me and told me
we all family eyes lit no **** no fit nothing
but a glowing brain exemption of fame down goes my name
in the book of life made wisdom my wife
she took my arm she's my charm
as I glance at the souls gunned down on plantations farms gangsta....
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
One juice box
One scone
One apple for Noble
and a pita for Peter
One sandwich
One coke
One green pea for me
and a pita for Peter
One fanta for Santa
One pizza for Caesar
And extra mozzarella for Ella
The spare is for you
And as for the bean
Put that in the bin
and a pita for Peter
One ice-cream
One pie
One pasta for Busta
and a pita for Peter
One cake
One steak
One milkshake for Shriek
and a pita for Peter
One pita
for Peter?
Give each one their own
and a pita for Peter
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
This time is precious,
every moment infectious.
One minute in a parking lot,
parking cigarettes in the dirt,
outside a library no less.
And from one minute to the next,
shaking hands with a councilwoman.
Just her presence,
was a good omen.
This is a community meeting,
ahead of a strike,
on May 15th.
Our fight?
Our cause?
Wage parity.
The resource vitality,
of every worker,
and every family.
Every human deserves dignity.
Repeat it with rapidity.
We are all created equal.
This is a civil rights sequel.
You can't survive on $7.93
And if it were up to me,
No job would pay less than
FIFTEEN.
The rich can't inoculate,
what they didn't anticipate.
Fry cooks, cashiers, drive-thru tellers,
(these ain't no "bums" or beggars!)
They met up with activists,
and labor leaders.
They've walked off the job
and into the streets!
They've come out,
to take a stand,
to shake off their chains,
and make some demands!
$15 and a union!!!
If you haven't taken notice,
I don't what you've been doin!!!
I hope McDonald's, Wal-Mart, and retailers galore,
value the profit-producers,
running their stores.
The notion upon which,
both capitalists and socialists can agree,
is that labor produces value according to theory.
The media are watching,
in case you need reminding.
Watching you rake in BILLIONS,
while paying and STEALING,
POVERTY WAGES.
We call this condition,
hard-working ENSLAVEMENT,
with pay-as-you-go debit card "paychecks"...
And all this "part-time"
just to make sure workers are best
nickel'd and dime'd!!
But what you don't seem to understand,
is that this movement is long overdue.
Do we need a historical inflation review?
And this $10.10 business?
Please!
What is this 1993?
You can't sanitize,
Baptize,
nor televise,
this struggle.
These are a people who've had enough.
'Ya Basta!' they say! 'Enough is Enough!'
Enough struggle,
enough hustle,
Enough putting in muscle,
and your time, and blood,
and sweat and tears,
many with children,
many for years,
without a pay bump that keeps pace,
with the basic cost of living these days.
Still a minimum wage,
of only $7.93?!
I say 'Ya Busta!'
if you ask me.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
This.
Is an ode
to Hip Hop
to Bob Sop
and Rob Top.
You flop mop the back drop
And sweep the front shack shop.
"I CAN'T HEAR ****
Well.
Listen up gramps and stop licking those stamps cuz I got a bit more for ya then this sweet little dance.
Lemme tell you a story
of a few men who gotta bit more then glory.
We got 2-PAC, wutang, and snoop Dogg with a ciggie.
Eazy-E, Jay Z, Eminem and Biggie
Outkast to outlast 2000? I mean really.
Ice cube and Cool J won't keep it too hot.
Need a shot for the cold you just caught?
il throw you a deal- 50 Cent,
and dr. Dre?
He's yours, all yours
but just for the day.
Run Dmc, busta rhymes, slick rick, and tech nine
Oh! And a tribe called quest.
Alright. Ok.
Il give it a rest.
Dear gramps. Dear grams.
Just want you to know
these men- they're the best.
Now let's go to the show!
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
Isn't it nice to rhyme
When words strike as divine
Made to fit the part
Unlike free verse aristofarts
Who would **** your mother
Like beatnik Stepbrother
And sleep through their clocks
For nocturnal jabberwocks
If ever was a Good man.
Benny swung with the times, man.
But Jazz rolled from the hits
Of white British misfits.
When South Bronx fell through crack
The sky and hood went black
Poets sold missing car parts
For Busta Rhymes to bust a start.
Poetry had to lose an art.
Rhyming tossed like the ****
Who ****** Lord Tennyson's ****
Which tugged at Victoria's smock.
It's easy to criticize
An age demystified
But now personifies
Poetry commercialized
And the old aging misfit
Tries to gather the spit
With a mouth so dry.
But not a poet in the sky
Will sanction the crime
To help his verse opine
Against the words-of-a-kind
That English bespoke to rhyme.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
Spare me my pride hip hop
Let me get lost in you
Swallow the conflicted emotions I carry
Your artistic touch humbles me
I think……. "Dear you....with love ...from Poetry
***** over the mere sounds of a pounding heart
To the drums and cellos that caress your eardrum
Brothers and sisters confide in you
Fell in love from the roots to souls of mischief
Nomadic as he busta a rhyme
Evidence of a bigger common dream
What he did to get there
****** bleed, notorious hit boy
That’s how some find death in the hands of art
Medusa, the beauty that shattered the lustful greed
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
Hey mate didja
G’day bloke wouldja
Yo girlfriend canya
Yeah I thinkya oughta
Farkin’ inquisishin ain’t it
Leavus alone won’t ya
Youse gotta hide busta
She'd've seenus would’ve she
How’d ya be cob
‘twasn’t him inner face
Iffa ask her
She’d teller noway
Givus a ganda bud
Who’d’ve thought eh
Why’d he stick ‘is nose in
‘tisn’t nar buddy’s bisness
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
It's the return of the gangsta, thanks ta
Them bustas that thinkin' they real trouble
Them ******* that tellin' me I'm but a bubble
I'm the real **** ************ don't point at me
I'm everything you and your buddies wanted to be
It's the return of the real G, ***** *****
I could straight up ****** you without the beat
I'm nothing like any of you think, I'm the danger
All you be seeing in my is just some ******* stranger
Lemme acquaint you with the las thing you'll see before you fall
************* thinking they're cool
They be thinking I'm a ******* busta
All they be seeing is I ain't a hustla
I ain't nothing but doom to you, lil *****
I ain't the one who be seeing the dirt in the ditch
I ain't Brown or André, I ain't no name in this *****
But it's still the return of the gangsta
Out here to kick yo *** back to when you had a masta'
It ain't happenin' again, ain't nothan'
No bebop **** no big hood thangs
Just realize you outta line
Cause you ain't got a fuckin' dime
Bite my dolla', *****
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
rapping with rappers on the radio
filling the gaps with extra lyric
mapping the sappy way they pretend
and offering 16 beats a breath like a boss
rick ross looks lost when handed floss
and jay z is crazy lazy in May, maybe cause Beyoncé’s
bounce house lacks compressed air
and the weave in her hair ads to the growing despair
like Dr. Dre cares about flared out khakis while Rakeem’s
grill gleams like flava flavs time piece –
b-boy stylin while in the dance hall
and balla’s with creased collars
throw dolla’s at bithces locked in the twerk
jerkin off in the corner lil kim seems thin
since aids came to play
and fat joe and heavy d sit with harps
lookin down at the crowd jumpin around
they floatin on **** clouds proudly
snoop’s pound frowns at clowns
tryin to be down
but really just hangin around
like the Mississippi mounds
poundin ***** like Tupac on acid
and that lil goblin from hotlanta
actin like he steady mobbing
they robbin the hood for goods and services
while talking **** to easily impressed suburb kids
acting like they got a message
but only KRS got anything to say
and that was just the one time
chuck d and that insane griff
talkin mad crap about gay rappers
and casting couch happenings
has me reacting like maybe I need to a new faction
cause I ain’t into none of eminem’s new action
and poor ole busta
nuts bein busted
in those funky *** dreads –
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
I am but a rose
Or a dandelion
Or a tree.
Or a **** perhaps.
Or a brain that thinks.
I’m a river or a tree
It could be you,
it could be me.
Don’t think,
don’t speak,
Just feel, I tell myself.
So I’m the wind and some other crazy poetic metaphor or simile.
My mind is full of abstract words and tunnels-slash-
flowings things that can’t make sense-slash-
all the things a mind will spin in a fragile casing-slash-
a destruction of words that cannot be prohibited-slash-
So I don’t want to think.
Yeah, I’ll go with that.
But pardon my lack of busta rhymes
and feelin’ the rhythm.
Apathy is a gravity my mouth has learned to find.
A slow crawling, rhythm stalling,
asphexiating breath.
Thus my words have been forestalled.
Goodbye.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC