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2021-12-26 -Lurid Crime Tales-

Teen suspect in Texas mass school shooting re-arrested for violating conditions of release

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Posted by Fred 2021-12-26 00:00|| || Front Page|| [11 views ] Top

#1 Bail? For a school shooter?

Amazing

Posted by Sock Puppet of Doom 2021-12-26 09:28|| 2021-12-26 09:28|| Front Page Top

#2 The Gods of the Wokey Book Scratchings at work.

Posted by M. Murcek 2021-12-26 09:29|| 2021-12-26 09:29|| Front Page Top

#3
As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings, I notice, are bound for a mighty fall.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Hip-hop, Bling and Bitches and Drugs,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Trayvon.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a The Crips lost to The Bloods in Los Angeles, or Jussie got away cold.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch.
They denied that stealing’s a crime; they denied property even exists.
They denied that killing is wrong, if it’s a cracker who’s shot.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised we could pay our way out.

When the Clintonian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace (if we legalizes crack cocaine).
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, then only crooked federal agents would be armed.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”

On the first CRT tablets we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour’s wife and ended by killing the ho.)
Till our women had only mulattoes and the men drank by burn barrels all day,
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings said: “Partay on, brutha!”

In the Booshiferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By just laying back and enjoying it, comon, all y’all;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings said: “Get your slim ass down to Rodeo and grab some shit.”

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, (it’s mostly 10 karat, dude) and my nine’s better than your nine, you better believe it, too.—
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings got in a stolen ride and split.

Posted by M. Murcek 2021-12-26 09:49|| 2021-12-26 09:49|| Front Page Top

#4 Good sentiment, M, and cleverly written, but both rhyme and rhythm schemes are seriously tortured. *shudder*

Posted by trailing wife 2021-12-26 17:04|| 2021-12-26 17:04|| Front Page Top

#5 Well, two things. I did it in Internet time. I probably edited it for 3 hours after that. Second, tortured rhymes happen more often than many folks realize in hip-hop.

Posted by M. Murcek 2021-12-26 17:11|| 2021-12-26 17:11|| Front Page Top

#6 By "after that," I mean it satisfies me more now than the version you are seeing.

Posted by M. Murcek 2021-12-26 17:12|| 2021-12-26 17:12|| Front Page Top

#7 See: Andrew Dice Clay's dirty nursery rhymes. The place where the meter is broken is part of the joke. I didn't really get that here, but I was thinking that way.

Posted by M. Murcek 2021-12-26 17:14|| 2021-12-26 17:14|| Front Page Top

#8 Second cut:

As I pass through my incarnations in every hood and place,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through security windows I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings, I notice, are bound for a mighty fall.

We were living like white men when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water don’t come out of a tap, as Fire would certainly burn the neighbor’s crib down:
But we found them lacking in Hip-hop, Bling and Bitches and Drugs,
So we left them to teach the Hamptonistas while we followed the March of Trayvon.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Getting around in Maybachs like the Gods of the Market-Place;
But they always caught wind we had scored, and presently word would come
That The Crips lost to The Bloods in Los Angeles, or Jussie got away cold.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch.
They denied that stealing’s a crime; they denied property even exists.
They denied that killing is wrong, if it’s a cracker who’s shot.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised we could pay our way out.

When the Clintonian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace (if we legalizes crack cocaine).
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, then only crooked federal agents would be armed.
But when we disarmed They pulled Jan 6 and locked us down cause they could.
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings said: “You din’t see dat shit comin, homes?”

On the first CRT tablets we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour’s wife and ended by killing the ho.)
Till our women had only mulattoes and the men drank by burn barrels all day,
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings said: “Partay on, brutha!”

In the Booshiferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By just laying back and enjoying it, comon, all y’all;
But, though we had plenty of pelts, there was nothing our stash could buy,
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings said: “Get your slim ass down to Rodeo and grab some shit.”

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, (it’s mostly 10 karat, dude) and my nine’s better than your nine, you better believe it, too.—
And the Gods of the Wokeybook Scratchings got in a stolen ride and split.
If you don’t believe it, time you got hip to that shit.

Posted by M. Murcek 2021-12-26 17:16|| 2021-12-26 17:16|| Front Page Top

#9 Yes. It's tortured. Just like our present era.

Posted by M. Murcek 2021-12-26 17:20|| 2021-12-26 17:20|| Front Page Top

#10 Your second pass doesn’t hurt, M. Thank you. :-) So few poems, even doggerel, spring forth fully formed like Athena. Almost all benefit from carving away all the bits that obscure the statue within.

A friend who wrote a high school textbook about poetry pointed out that listening to hip hop changes how language is heard, making it much harder to feel more traditional forms of poetry. My takeaway was a comparison between ballet and jazz dance, the latter distorting the forms of the former.

Posted by trailing wife 2021-12-26 19:26|| 2021-12-26 19:26|| Front Page Top

#11 Who the hell was the judge!!?

Posted by Woodrow 2021-12-26 23:55|| 2021-12-26 23:55|| Front Page Top

23:57 Solomon Lumplump9917
23:57 Woodrow
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21:59 Skunky Gonque6856
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20:53 Chris
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