SCRATCHIN' LOTTO / SIPPIN' STR8 FROM THE BOTTO'

RID RAGE SLOWLY
NET BEES
KINDLY SHUT/LOCK VILLA
PRACTICE LYNX TOURISM
CALENDAR NOSTALGIA: LEAF, VAPOUR
RANGE ABYSS

- scratchin' menace

DRY

turn your cards face up in the magic
the gathering night
the rain falls hard against
the shells of minivans and cafeterias
it’ll take all the mana you’ve got
to sustain you on your way out of the 90s
listening to the rain
forever and never learning anything
you go back and forth
eat under fluorescent lights
you’re going to need all of that mana
to cultivate the flow that will run the poetry game
and then act like you didn’t ask for any of it

by: s—in' m

FACE THA FAXE

man, I'm a machine when the Faxe come in
I'm axiomin' with acumen, taxin' that whack shit
that suckaz be frontin' n scratchin' each other's backs with
damn right tha menace be gettin' they backs up-
set, downin' my Faxe cup like it's tha last supp—
—ah ... get on my level as it enter tha bloodstream
I scratched 'em from tha record, ya whole team
whole factions o' Saxons get wrecked by tha Faxe, son
tha truth hurts—it bring heart attacks on
careers in vain get defibrilated
time to give up, mang: my rhymes is tightly calibrated
my chicks be sports illustrated, undershorts-liberated,
and my shows be so hot, they radio-syndicated

by: scratchin' menace

NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY

I stand altered at the altar of the discount gods
Wild Turkey and Old Crow
set back only six greenbacks
for an ounce and an ale
amidst wrecked tins of Bomb Draught
and cream ale by Genesee
sweeter than Hennessy
feeling full blessed by fate full moveless
my pocket spared some heft
and I double fisted, alternating sips
till my eyes misted over trivial quips
— dewed, dripped, poured and monsooned

the flood done come on soon
Turkey and Crow both turned to foe
and I pissed my beers in a flood of tears

by: scratchin' menace + lucky genius

all knaw he's da menace
issued straight from da netha plexus—
sprung from da tissue of a pinup issue
ol' milwaukee girl, in back of a lexus

by: scratchin' menace

all knaw he's da besty

from the e to far westy

deep s to northernesty

harken hard to ol' pesty:

 

"motherfucking nine man maurice.

slang your can like a loaded piece,

slug from tha cannon, never cease

to fuck tha poh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-lice."

by: pesty commandah

FORTY-FIVE CALIBRE

Running out the gate like it's Super Bowl Sunday
Crackin' seven-tens, ain't no work 'til Monday
Reinvent this game like Samuel Colt did
Forty-Five calibre, I'm sick of this Olde shit.
English.

My peacemaker sends them Red Coats runnin'
Where my brew at, cracker?
Gotta keep steady gunnin'.


guest posted by: shriekin' bastard