A Tribute To My Muses:

Below you will read the creative product of my daily commute. It is written in the style of the epic poem, more or less set to the rhyme scheme of The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I dedicate it to the many women who unknowingly served as my muses. You are the Lad[ies] in Red to my Chris De Burgh, and you continue to inspire me every day. I love you.


One Million Ghetto Bitches



One Million Ghetto Bitches,
And One Presumptuous Man,
Who tempted fate to tell their tale,
To all across the land.

He threw all caution to the wind;
For this, he can't deny--
The wrath of just One Ghetto Bitch
Could make a grown man cry.

He calls himself the Chronicl'r;
Spread word to everyone,
For if he fails to warn the world,
Their cruelty's just begun.

Said Ghetto Bitches are not pleased,
With passing news they've heard,
Malfeasance sticks upon their names,
Like shepherds to the herd.

One Million Ghetto Bitches;
A raucous urban band,
Whites, Blacks and yes, Latinas,
Canal Street purse in hand.

They move around the underground,
Pink iPod clad in rhine,
They proudly blast Beyoncé,
For neigh'bring ears to dine.

And if you should have any doubts,
How to identify,
A Ghetto Bitch from any bitch,
The Chronicl'r is nigh.

He tells of boots in leatherette,
The length of which thigh-high.
Betwixt glossed lips a cigarette,
Assuredly must lie.

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
In true form on this day,
Must wear but the tightest tops;
Coquettish gut display.

Upon their ears adorn'd great hoops,
In colors bright and bold.
The most bewitching of all hues,
Is crafted from fool's gold.

The Chronicl'r now treads the streets,
With utmost gravity,
For if he is identified,
A dead man shall he be.

Their gen'rous chests cleft with the cross,
Of Jesus Christ Divine,
The scale of which can never be,
Declared "across the line."

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
Causing collective moans,
Of the eight million commuters,
Tortured by their cell phones.

Claws born of petroleum,
In ornate patterns show,
The status of a Ghetto Bitch,
For all rivals to know.

Most gingerly he makes his way,
Into the underground,
One Ghetto Bitch has noticed him,
His heart begins to pound.

Her gum is chewed with great tumult -
A bovine fantasy -
With jaws that move from side to side,
Quite unlike you and me.

One Million Ghetto Bitches
On guarded high alert;
Word has been put out on our man:
Honor's defense must hurt.

With haste he makes a great escape,
By slipping car to car,
Most gravely unbeknownst to him,
He won't get very far.

Doors open fast-- a tone is heard,
"Canal Street" just announced,
Without regard he dashes out--
Our hero shall be trounced.

Rounding the corner at great speed,
And sprinting up the flight,
A turnstile struck with epic force,
He's halted by her might.

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
Forging at their Bazaar,
Dreams of LV escaping them;
There's shrieking from a spar.

They rush to see what has transpir'd,
Extensions on the floor;
Was this just a hoochie fight?
Or was this something more?

The MTA booth ghetto bitch,
Is standing bald and proud,
For, she has captured our hero,
And shows him to the crowd.

Into the trunk of their hooptie,
Our dear Chronicl'r goes,
They drive and swerve from side to side,
While touchin' up they toes.

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
Tall short and thin and wide.
And of these Million Ghetto broads,
There's not one virgin bride.

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
One Million Gats in hand,
And all One Million aimed upon,
That One Presumptuous Man!

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
Sing their greedy war song,
Upon his brow and breast and limb,
While one adjusts her thong.

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
Basking in crimson rain,
The Chronicl'r writhing in throe;
Soul slipping from this plane.

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
Victr'y hath been secured,
Those pesky rumors laid to rest;
The Truth shall be obscured.

One Million Ghetto Bitches,
Robespierre's reign shall start,
The Chronicl'r now ends his prose,
In chorus with his heart...