Poetry Corner

The B-boys all tore up their sweatsuits,
The B-girls all sat down and cried,
The breakers were broken, the Fat Boys had spoken:
Poor Human Beatbox had died.

He had died of a fall off the sofa
(O such a cruel way to depart!)
His body was shocked, his soul popped-and-locked,
The fall Krushed his great big heart.

It may seem strange or disorderly
To think that he's not coming back;
His beats for "The Twist" will be sorely missed,
The world seems a little more whack.

But you mustn't cry for Human Beatbox
Though he's busted his last earthly jam:
He's got his Adidas, he's with baby Jesus
He's busting a groove with the Lamb.

Why won't they let me in the Wu-Tang Clan?
What could I be doing wrong?
I'm down with Master Killa and I like Method Man;
I know every last word to each song.

I'm dressed in Wu-Wear from my head to my toes;
A fly gold-toothed smile on my face.
I got a tattoo where it hardly ever shows--
I even drink Tang, just in case.

I bust complex rhymes with the greatest of ease;
My homeys all give me my props.
And sucker MC's are all down on their knees:
They have to admit, I'm the tops.

So why won't they let me in the Wu-Tang Clan?
Just what am I not doing right?
I've done everything that I possibly can--
Why is it? Why is it?