Etan Thomas: Slam Poet

Wizznutzz Poetry


I am a King of one, subject to none but


and I


Eyes pregnant with visages of players to a throne

Pretenders who have shown, their souls turn like a basketball

A revolution.

I am the last left standing, the original prophet

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal

I cannot be comprehended except by my permission

My mons pubis is braided like Anubis before me

And now nobody can ignore me, score on me

I fill the lane with brains,

Reading futures in the stains

On my game worns.

Now I look upon my culture,

I see ballers, sure I do

Hard corers in Haute Couture, in furs

Enough to make my ancestry – stir

My brothers among me,

Kwame a black walnut tree,

Lorenzo in his Benzo, give Stevie Blake his Vitamin D

Gheorghe, the Great White Way,

My endocrine Giant is dying on the parquet

My soldier in hardwood war, Haywood

I ask: “What sound is made from the clapping of one small hand?”

A heart bigger that the prostate gland

of Abe

Honest, Master Pollin, an ego so kingly swollen, let me go,

Because the Foggy Bottom Metro is still an underground railroad

A time now of No kings,

No bling bling, a dawn for champions


Upon a time I was the first born here

In a time when King Hidi had

a taste for rookie cockery and chocolate fleece,

he held the locker room lease. Then in a day

to Phoenix, his reign nixed,

I showered for the first time in peace.

And then the King of Kings came to town

Riding on devils pacts, the backs of mules.

He brought his Airs(tm),

his nostalgic cloths, he filled arenas with the moths

Of decay

With a lady of white at his side


comma, K.

Now they gave Mike a motor bike. “Ride away ride away”

But no ride can hold old men’s pride

So with a wince, The Frog fired the Prince.

It was once wrote that

Of this traveler from an antique land

Two vast and balky legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Grand, half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

“My name is Michael, King of Kings:

Look upon my works, ye Faggots, and despair!”

Nothing beside remains.

Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

But the devil, the King, he is not a man.


Its an Association

That cuts the checks,

So I kneel and look this devil in the eye.

And say:

I will honor my ancestors, for I am the hiphop poet,

the last poet,

And there will be

Another last poet

After me

And as I drop my knowledge, my backpack rap

At a Republic Gardens slam, it is your soft white daughters

who swallow it all

At what price?

A two drink minimum and I think:

Now who are you calling slave?

Who is King

And who the Knave?


~ by bojangles on April 5, 2005.

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