The Pope

I leave opponents weak Every time I speak, I pown a geek I'm known, the bozo who's prone to gleek Leave the microphone soaked in toner ink Cuz I'm printing out rhymes and I'm making them jam When they read my outlines they become a fan I'm a son of sam who's been raking it in A braindead caveman taking the win I'll say it again: I'm taking the win I may be a kid but I know that you'll play me again Cuz baby I'm it, I come in with the alien wit And everything I say is salient: AP Lit I leave the regrets in my hindsight I don't need the weakness in the limelight I treat the demons like a trilobite How I light 'em up like I'm dynamite Yeah I blow 'em up like they're Jesse and James Blasting off like a rocket, gassing the flames Advancing the game and passing the grades Y'all don't even got a prospect, yo, quit harassing the dames I break chains, I maintain The same razzle-dazzle that keeps me ingrained I put it on wax like a Razzmatazz And that's a Crayola crayon for y'all avid fans I'mma spaz on a loudmouth, inbred acolyte Asking me if I can tag a caption onto what I write I'm out of sight, flying higher than a kite Telling childish rappers"Hey, night night" I leave the regrets in my hindsight I don't need the weakness in the limelight I treat the demons like a trilobite How I light 'em up like I'm dynamite Yeah I hear the demons chasing The devil's at my back like I needed pacing But we aren't racing I'm beyond basing My own self-worth on the words of Satan So I close the case and send a prayer to Poseidon There's no adjacents in the place I'm residing There's no syndication in the way I'm rhyming Only syncopation and impeccable timing I arrive at my destination impatient The impish bag-boy sends up an exultation I inhale, and on my exhalation I escalate to a priestly station I exercise my right to be equal And exorcise by rite the true evil I banish and dispel right through the steeple Anything that prevails as truly deceitful I walk up the steps with my thoughts and regrets It's as hot as it gets as I top up the crest The demon looms behind his office and desk Body shimmering from his droplets of sweats"Yo drop the pretense, I'm here I ain't no beginner Dispensing blessings' my profession so please commence your confessing, sinner" He just laughs and grabs for his staff I slam open the case and pull out the draft"I evoke the bespoke, the cold draft To blow away like Roanoke this old gaff" I spot him necking it like a giraffe But he trips and stumbles like a fumbling calf So I finish the rite, invoke the exorcism Feel a peace in the night without his portly schism No more blight, the plight of the frightened's been lifted I sigh and delight that my writing's been gifted In every line, you will find the divine No there is no sense penning sins into your lines And it's crunch-time, I'm disinclined to recline So I'm getting mine, writing rhymes 'til I'm enshrined I leave the regrets in my hindsight I don't need the weakness in the limelight I treat the demons like a trilobite How I light 'em up like I'm dynamite B. Boyd