Academic Rap

Yo yo yo

I got the first blog about academic rap

claptrap deleterious

on foreign ministries, various

snaps like a turtle on the road to find maps

of northeast asia cos the northeast is a major player

like Suleski on Manchurian Youth Corps

I’ll leave you wanting more

in terms of self-expression from anything else you’ll explore

tenure prophylactics to speech hatch mathmatical Greeks

who count words add up to articles the folded-up crease

let’s talk about the chest-bumping culture of the day

no wonder  articles don’t get read anyway

the conflict is submerged, until I call Allen Millett

we can bump around go rooting in each other’s archive for a minute

and I’d hobble up impoverished ‘cos the old man is so limber

he’d smash my phase down in tributaries of Han River

of footnotes that flow from his typeface so nimble

how can an old man with a master plan smash down the plucky giver

of prose chunks profane, face up to the name

engraved in the granite of a grim concrete rain-

berm, like girls who offer seats in NYU library

why vary verbal jargon? aren’t octagons poly?

I don’t fight feudal battles after cataclysm ”49

so I decline to add footnotes in this WordPress rhyme

but links can add hyper, and hyper you shall be

all linked to verbal rockets, fight the power, you’re free

to disagree and leave comments with perspectives askew

don’t look at me now, I didn’t vote for Agnew

or David Frost, who looks bewildered as Dick talks a somber line

the POTUS is among us, mensongiste, he’s on the line

but the recordings are half-baked,

and what did he say?

He said to bomb Vietnam, the American way!

But Henry, did you pray to the Pandas you’re cultivating?

Bruce Cumings says you’re Woody Allen with a massive head

Bled of all his stories, Bruce lumbers up to purgatory

to watch Foster Dulles dance a tap to a Homburg beat

vite, und schnell, wie die Ausdruck gemeldet

mit Schweigend, hab ich dich mit Rosen gekleidet

dieses Blog sind nicht Bayreuth, und es sind nicht Frei

die Freiwilligen Körpen hier, am Boden, leiden

und sorgen, bis morgen, wenn die Sonne verstorben

veröffnet, und klagen, wie die Dame ich mage,

wo sind sie in Traum, in ein eignes Raum

die Selbstsuch und mit Wut, an ein anderes gedacht,

macht schnell, mein Herr, die Luft macht Kalt

und Halt —- drop the beat in overtime

this game’s not over, big arcing 3 force the Game 5

like the King in his Sun Tzu shoes, this mist calls to mind

a synthesis of all things that is couched in rhyme

you can’t handle academic rap

this whole post was a trap

some kind of faux announcement of a genre with no map,

no heart, no soul, just some fizz in a bowl

without fishes, no wishes for something different

like sources who snitched once and never saw daylight again

purgatory footnote brings me back again

NOW DROP A ___.____.  BEAT ON IT

PIC_7132

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