Long Rapping Poems
Long Rapping Poems. Below are the most popular long Rapping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rapping poems by poem length and keyword.
Every song has a story under our big sun
Our song we sing forevermore from since a note begun
Let us roar from our core, powerful with might
Mighty might with delight for others to unite
Singing songs in sarongs to step a little dance
If people do not join with us they are in a trance
As a song is great to hear so never should prolong
A happy, hearty healthy party for the greatest song...
Dogs may join to sing our song with an upright tail
Holding notes are the goats behind them is a snail
Who wants in to harmonise the butterflies and bees
The lyrebird will sing our songs in minor, major keys...
The kangaroo will hop along to our vocal beat
Backups with rosellas and famous lorrikeet
Dolphins clicks singing tricks whilst whales do there thing
Overlapping with some rapping funky fusion fing...
Songs are for the people and for the animals
Everybody sings our songs even cannibals
We need to sing our song right now, We’ll sing it high and low
C’mon baby sing the song Oh ! Oh !! Oh!!!
Funky fusion fing...
Minor major keys...
For The greatest song...
For The greatest song...
For The greatest song...
For The greatest song
A finger tapping on a thigh,
An overt look, a smile, a nod, a sigh:
A wistful morning bus ride past the Y...
In the limbo of an exiled mind,
Time's a question no one answers --
Averted glances on a crowded street,
A smirk, a leer, a spoken dart we must not hear.
It is the grey of an eternal dusk
Wherein a dusty mirror keeps insisting
We see ourselves as we know we mustn't.
When did our names melt to an amorphous mass?
When did the pronouns confuse their gender?
He for she, she for he and it as well?
How long has Mary been our common Mother,
Sister, auntie, lover, brother -- and ourselves?
What's the kilometric distance, heaven to hell?
The rapping of a finger on a thigh,
A covert look, a grin, a wink, a sigh.
But all can lie, all can lie,
Are not signals, can mean...nothing...
Wishful morning bus rides pass the Y.
true story Joy france https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxYk0VLv4GM, joy is the poet in residence at afflecks palace manchester its artisan market on like 4 floors , language is a bit blue if you click the link it is a rap battle
The one digit poet
That middle fingers super fast
always used first never last.
Shes the battle rapping grannie.
The words are fired from her lips
hardened rappers she as eclipsed.
Theres no mercy given or expected
from this battle rapping grannie.
Words are her stock in trade
other rapper should be very afraid
Joy France the battle rapping grannie.
The undisputed queen of Afflecks palace.
The Absent Apparition
Weeping at the window panes, screaming through the locks
Banging upon the ship’s hull, scratching on the docks
Pounding on the headboard, rapping on the glass
Sneaking up to scare the girls, as they run to class
Noone sees his image, as he’s quick to hide away
Leaving to your imagination, what you’re gonna say
Teacher’s they don’t fear him, children stay a fright
If you just ignore him, he’ll come to you at night
Run ye little child hide beneath the bed, don’t make a sound or you’ll be found
Then he’ll have your head
10/12/2021
Written for Something Spooky 8 to 16 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
BROOKLYN, CURTIS BAY
2980 DRAMS BOULAVARD
CURTIS BAY M.d. 21226
THEY ADDRESSED THIS TO" THE FELLA IN THE GREEN SWEATER". I WAS WORRIED, IT SOUNDED LIKE SOMETHING FROM A MOVIE. i TOLD HIM, TO PUT, A QUARTER WAY UP HIS, "BLEEP". HE GOT MAD AND SLAMMED THE DOOR. " HE CRAZY" SAID BUSHIA BEEZ, "HE CRAZY"! SHE TOLD THE WORK-MEDIA TEAM, HE CAME BACK HERE TWO DAYS LATER, ASKING ME DID SHE RECOGNIZE HIM, SHE" I TOLD HIM, NO, BUT I REMEMBER THE SPOT OF TOMATO SAUCE YOU DRIBBLED ON YOUR SHIRT, AND IT'S STILL THEIR, AND YOU NASTY, AND CRAZY!". SISTER MUAFFEE'S SON TOLD ME HE BOUGHT A MASK, FROM ONE OF THOSE ON-LINE STORES." HOW HE GONNA LOOK, HIS BLACK HANDS, WEARING A WHITE FACED MASK, " HE CRAZY!, HE CRAZY !" NOW SISTER GRAFFA'S SON GOT IT GOING ON, HE GOT EIGHT HOE'S AND TWO OR THREE WHATCHA MA CALLIUMS, HE STAY OUT OF THEIR BUZZINESS, LET THE HIOE'S MAKE THE DOUGH!", BUT THE OTHER MAN, " HE CRAZY!" H" HE CRAZY!"
THIS IS A LETTER ADDRESSED TO MRS. MOO'D HASKSOON OF BICKES BILL HEIGHTS!
BICKES BILL MAKES YOU BOOGIE!
GET DOWN WITH -IT AND BOOGIE WOOGIE!
TWO DRUMMERS AND THE OBOIST, SMUGDED THE KETTELEDRUMS
THE CONDUCTER CUSSED AND FUSSED, SAID THEY WERE
THREE SHY OF DUMB. WHERE THEY GONNA GET THE CLOTH TO WIPE
OFF THE KETTLEDRUM?
TAKE THEM RAGS OFF OF YOUR BACK, AND CLEAN MY KETTLEDRUM.
It’s hard these days for a crook.
Go anywhere around and take a look.
Ain’t no shops to rob of jewelry.
They all closed up and got security.
Not even restaurants for him to rob,
and at the grocers’ Lordy - what a mob!
It’s hard these days for a thief.
I wonder how he’s finding his relief.
Folks he used to rob out on the street
are staying home or downtown packing heat!
See a mugger; put him at unease.
If ya got no gun, pretend to sneeze.
What’s he gonna do? What’s he gonna do?
That crook, that thief, that louse. He’s in a stew.
Yeah, it’s hard these days for a crook.
How’s he gonna get any fishes on his hook.
Hard to burglarize both night AND day
with kids now home and never gone away.
Dad’s are even working from their houses -
some with bullets ready for the louses!
It’s hard these days for the thief.
The grocery stores don’t even have ground beef.
Cops now guard those stores, for heaven’s sake!
How’s the robber gonna get a break?
He best be wise and stay away from US!
In case somebody out there has the virus.
What’s he gonna do? What’s he gonna do?
That crook, that thief, that louse. He’s in a stew.
March 27, 2020 for Richard Lamoureux's A-Muse-Sing Poetry Contest
I was thinking of that song "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" and got the idea to be sarastic about crooks. So this was inspired by that song (though it does not use that song's rapping format at all), and by the title of Richard's contest. Just trying to keep things light. The guns at gun shops here are selling like hotcakes.
you appear here rhyming beard and weird
eating oatmeal acting fierce
here's your limelight here's your career
here's a spliff and here's a beer
and a magic trick where you disappear
a rapping disaster passed a chance
to topple the master and steal the stance
six years of ideas captured in write
yet rhymes don't appear and it's childlike
syllable rhymes which aren't true but more near
A's rhymed with E's insulting the ear
and from a poetic perspective it's awfully clear
your brain's only human when the pulse disappears
flatlining blind at the peak of it's climb
declining back down yet on the same line
One cold, stormy and dreary night
While I was long lost in my musing,
There came a knocking, faint and light
Yet startled me from my dozing.
In the grim glow of a solitary candle
I got out of my old chair acreaking
And to the front door I did waddle,
Through the eyeglass began peeking.
Except for the road with such bleak a plight,
As was snow dust drifting and swirling,
There was but not a soul in sight
So much so, my heart began racing.
Frozen to the ground I stood still,
Deep into the darkness I kept peering,
In the grip of fear and weak of will,
Who might be? I kept wondering.
With a rush of uncommon valor and insight,
I nudged ajar my dwelling door
to explore this mystery of my fright --
Lo, merely darkness there and nothing more!
With a smile and back in my chair;
Once again I heard now a loud tapping,
To confront the intruder, clear and fair
And unravel this behavior beguiling,
I marched emboldened to the door
And opened it wide now unfearing,
Hoping only darkness there and no more
And forever stop this irksome rapping.
With cold sweat welling on my brow,
Perched upon my front porch railing,
Emerged from darkness a carrion crow
Where it appears to have taken to roosting!
A stealer of soul, messenger of death,
With its beady black eyes kept at me looking,
Brooding over to let me live a few more breath
With a sly smile on its beak amocking.
With a choking dismay I crumpled to the floor,
Drenched in cold sweat, shivering, fluttering;
When I raised my head the crow was no more --
A close encounter or was I just dreaming?
~For Kelly Deschler's "My Last Contest"
~ Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven"
~ For the contest: "The Raven" by Kelly Deschler.
When I was younger so much younger than today, I used to go to lots of poetry events. There was something called Red Sky that was every week, people were so very serious about it. Then one day I had an epiphany, "My god. I'm at a poetry event," and stopped going.
Later it all became poetry slams. Went to a few of those, too, in awe of the awfulness. People with neither talent for acting, for reciting, for rapping, and certainly not for writing poems, put all these lack of talents together and had total support from audiences that consisted in the main of people only waiting for their turn.
Once when I'd blessedly escaped from a typical slam, there was a homeless drunk across the street from the noisy venue. He was having his own private poetry slam.
He kicked a telephone pole and screamed "Hello telephone pole!" stomped on the concrete and screamed, "Hello sidewalk!" then peered into a garbage can with "Hello garbage!" and shook the hell out of a newspaper vending machine, "Phuck you news!" It was a better poem than any that was being screamed inside at the slam.
Red Beard laughed at this lad
Stumbled on the wrong ship he had
Stowing away on a pirate vessel
Turned himself in not even a wrestle
Stout young lad must be at least ten
He wasn’t sure of the trouble he was in
To the plank cast him aside!
Then the boys knees buckled….he cried
Red Beard yanked him up and stared deep
Some use of this boy, if I want to keep
To the crew or to the sea? Red Beard thought
A pupil to over see if well taught
“Take him below!” are his orders
“Food and water in my quarters”
The boy moved quickly at the thought of food
Take his mind off of his saddened mood
A feast laid before his weary eyes
Hot bread and large chicken thighs
Warm milk and cool fresh water too was in store
He ate and ate till he couldn’t anymore
It was eve before the Captain appeared
The boy was asleep his mind without fear.
Into his arms the boy went
Carried to the cot for his rent
An orphan too, was this pirate knave
Maybe this child he could save
Schooling was what first struck his mind
A great teacher was hard to find
Sailing and piracy was all he knew
“I want more for this lad. A start anew.”
…..A rapping came to the cabin door
Urgent business he had to make sure
“What is it?” Bellowed a voice
“A British flag and jack a hoist!”
A war galleon was on the horizon
A battle was on the rising