Jesters of Yesteryear fester and fleer at today's brazen Legions of Loonies lumbering laconically, ironically, past the last bastion of fashion, after a fashion, to the roiling boiling beat of the big boom-box brigade. The Boys of Braggadocio, don't you know, point and banter, ravers and ranters of loud and rude platitudes and attitudes. The happy harlequins of Hip Hop hollering a hefty homage to the Homeboys. The forceful farce. The plain brown dapper rappers write another chapter of chitter-chatter. Their noise of choice is the human voice. The deep down town basically blacks and browns shouting, shucking, shocking, tough talking, lean, mean, teens delivering loudly, the lingo of liberation. Vexed, perplexed, over-sexed, in-your-face, at-your-place, subtle as a can of mace. This sight incites fights with a lot of frightened tight white troglodytes, in spite of a night of infinite dimension. The words spoken weren't jokin' tokens. The words I heard stirred the herd. I should mention the good intentions of the fist-clenchin' Masters of Dissension. Say, have you heard the way of the word? The voice of change for a change, how strange. The bass in the basement booms thoom thoom and there ain't no treble 'cause there ain't no room. There's rhythm rockin' in that jacket of racket. Found sound abounds down town, just look around. It's rhyme-time sublime, weaving words, and phrases of praise. Homemade hubris hurled hand over fist. Let your ears hear without fear.
© Martin Scherer. Webmaster Martin Scherer. Last update 9/98. E-mail: mscherer@tesserak.net