"masta" poems
Ye evar 'eard oda' masta' inna swamps?
E'a man hund wid 'is hands. . .take down a gator inna fide?
Yeah ah-boy, he a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.
Issue you'a hundin' widout a ricel? You's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.
Ain't nah trapping, nor'a line, no kedjewel, or time,
-jussa' body inna swamp you's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.
Swimmin' inna wad-eh got skin made-o' armah,
-inna mud, inna grasses, eh-no teachin' it in classes,
strike wid juss a knife inna hand he's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.
Issue you'a hundin' widout a ricel? You's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.
No ricel, no Glock, no light out innna night,
-jussa' body inna swamp you's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.
If you's can **** widout a ricel you's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
-I like to look at troubles and break from disasta
-It's hard at times but I know I can masta
-I feel at times they got'a leash on me but leashes can become unhooked
-So from my past I unhooked from the loop and booked
-I got ghost, I shook, and I had the mindset of'a crook
-Though I never acted out like'a hoodlum
-Potential I never saw in myself or maybe I'm too humble but either way swings the pendulum
-In more ways then one reality can shock you
-It can prove you to be the biggest foo'
-Most people sleep with the fake and despise the truth
-Everybody now and then can use a warm touch but then again a cold one will do
-Cuz it ain't fake no mo' when the truth slaps you with the obvious
-Cheek on swoll and you know it is
-Hate me or not, you know its some of the truest...
-I know cuz I was best friends with misery
-Still cry when somethin' reminds me of an old memory
-I fight it cuz I refuse to let it get the best of me
-What do you wanna know? I'm an open book
-You just gotta read between the lines on every page when you look
-Just more things to talk about
-When people doubt me, I tell 'em "You doubt me cuz you took the judgmental route"
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 7:19 PM 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
Light camera actions
See the peeps satisfaction
Only to add subraction to
Their conscious meanwhile
I block out the nonsense
Lightin chonky fires
Create underground empires
See the Messiah
When i puff on the smoke
No choke true og bangin l o cs
Listen to my cds on the vinyl
Spinning freely
Cuz reality sees us as bids
Put that on my future kids
Who aint here yet already labelled a threat
Steady target practice
For the cops
I sharpen my mind like a cactus
Stragetize
From the moves of my enemies
Make n take
In all that ******** so i can create
A masta plan sound the band
So wars can soar n much fore
Itll last fourscore
Out of the chains leeched on my brain
Cociane still slang
In the hood govs flying in the goods
To get us caught in a bust we must
Take back our own
Cuz if not all of us will be in a funeral home
Mind of a lyricist true mystics
Is what i kick **** that slick ****
Sick.of the world **** every boy and girl
In the ghetto gettin mugged
By the police as they release
Bullets n chaos
Another body drops from the galore shots
When they could have been a somebodybut nobody
Gives us a chance only dance
With the devils surroundin my circle
I box enemies til they face purple
Chokehold wont let go so here i go
Like Mystikal spiritual i be the indiviual
Causin miracle rap oracle
Shining bright in the back lights
**** the fame i rather puff a bag of mary jane
Than a snort of ******* man
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
I know you guys were never masta's
You don't own a plantation
Some of you don't even own a home.
But when you rock your chair
And recline to my beats
I hope you know what waters
You're treading on.
I hope you don't consume my melodies
And decline acknowledging my daughters and sons.
Because our pain is nothing to smile about.
Our grief isn't for you to swim in.
If you nod to our beats.
Make sure your ready to sink in and be an ally.
Not just another song
I have to write about
To heal my wounds.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
Wynken Blynken and Nod???
(ah...oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee
barked up the wrong tree –
reed don my mongrel friend)
This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag
to take digs on front page
headline grabbing news, nonetheless dag
nab bit significant dysfunction prevails
when ****** energy
does shutterfly like a black flag
without rapid eye movement,
this lix spittle chap
feels like an old hag
whereat every friggin bone (er)
in this straggly,mangy, and creaky ship
of state feels like jag
head shards piercing thine flesh
with pronounced jet lag
and reacts with
the slightest provocation
like a curmudgeonly
cranky compromised nag,
yet, this muttering mouth foaming
flea bitten doggone chow barker
bows down in (toto) obeisance
(like an obedient Dachshund)
tail wagging, trump petting,
and snout sniffing out provenance
on par with the smell of new sofa despite
fur vent angry ma
stiff masta paws zing
aghast at dog eared, glom haired,
and icky stained new furniture,
how petty, versus slumber
lest awakening the Cerberus within,
hence faux long enough
to excel as the top notch mix breed
boxer golden retriever terrier
male delivery postbag
(as taught at canine obedient school)
upon spilling contents,
the bulk of printed material
detailing importance,
sans letting sleeping
Canis lupus familiaris lye undisturbed,
especially after a bath
when pooch resembles
a limp dish rag
all apropos hot (gravy trained) relevant
topics for instance,
when feeling sleep deprived
detailing how to shepherd
and summon the snoop doggy dog
inchoate hounding gnarly
Marley elusive dream
fostering feigning fearsome nightmare
asper getting lost without a name tag.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
Munching my Big Mac, I mused, whilst adjusting my thong,
Was Flora MacDonald a daughter, perhaps Ronald a brother?
Busily rowing and singing the Skye Boat Song,
Is this the origin of the Drive-Thru? as ketchup I smother,
Poor Bonnie Prince Charlie, only a tiny army he brought along,
His seed he did naughtily scatter, sod the crown! too much bother!
So, tout-de-suite, legged it back to France,
Then expresso to Italy, as pasta-masta, bathed in a vat of sauce,
And led poor wife Princess Louise a merry dance,
Badly afflicted with wandering hands, showing no remorse,
His behaviour was shocking, tut-tutting the Pope looked askance,
Formed a sub-committee, tasked with strict morals to enforce
Laying on his deathbed, he tearfully imagined a whispered refrain,
Will ye no’ come back again?
Will ye no’ come back again?
Better lo’ed ye canna be,
Will ye no’ come back again?
(This chorus Carolina Baroness Nairne)
© Robert Porteus
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 9:13 AM UTC