A YEAR OF OCTOBERS

It was a midnight competition The YOUNGMAN was hosting The judges were fair The judges were roasting The judges were YOUNGMAN, Celestaphone, and some kind of ghost thing Backhanded compliments deliver that slow sting But YOUNGMAN couldn't front at the lady who dressed Betty Boop And he yammered and stammered in front of his petty group Their eyes met like old friends they already knew The ghost thing said, "10," and Celestaphone dropped deadly loop My raps fill space like inconsolable crying A basket case notice when whole world is dying Period so sad, unfuckingbelievable Feel so-called pro got degree in bull Told neph "happy b-day, you're age I stopped developing" Dead Kennedys enveloped soul, said hey fella sing Perennial teenager you can't tell a thing Especially from someone who can't even smell a To care what elders think, they gotta retain kid-dom Ancestral wisdom held in our guts as children YOUNGMAN in the building like landlord with squatters' rights May've fooled me once with small print but not tonight Caught a flight, zing pow right in the kisser Saw the light, source of the mystery I keep fighting misery but it's got me surrounded My favorite quarantine joke: "You're grounded!" I'm the Bad Bunny of dad jokes compounded by inflexible honesty and radical hope Laugh every night, don't sleep on sad notes But when I hit lab, all y'all say "that's dope" That's dope That's dope That's dope Yeah I'm in a lab, I'll be here all weekend So tell a friend and a tall freak Okay, sexy scientist in the house Look at how she adjust the blousey lab coat So beautifully placed the stethoscope Ay YOUNGMAN what you dressed as? YOUNGMAN a huge kid who loves to get stupid on rude big music My lady's a dresser for maybe lesser known Baby Esther Jones God bless her tone and yes her clones DJ Celestaphone's triple decker decks look like a waxburger Records he selects hit like an axe murder There's no word for an enormous toddler Whose knowledge cobbled together to form an abnormal author Perhaps an aging lil' guy Still fly enough to supply a laugh, kill a lie Sit down to write like taking dictation So banging low hanging scripts fill the sky Got too much to say to pause for the beat Gods for the details, free jails, laws incomplete Chorus artsy and def as Boris Artzybasheff Yet I don't often repeat Cross between Decalogue, Triumph the Comic Dog Promised God I'd flog whoever piloted the Amistad Thousand yard stare, brows frown in hard care Nose flairs, eyes squint, head crowds with grey hair 20 years ahead for 20 years Let's get friendly cheers before we drown in enemies' tears A toast clink to some kind of ghost thing Left as a person, returned in a closed ring Okay everybody, simmer down, calm down bitches Check check, one two Excuse me in the back, pay attention I'm gonna hold my beautiful hand over each one's head And y'all are gonna vote for your favorite eras Okay? Okay listo! Show some love to the punk-punk Not bad, not bad Next up, post-punk Okay, pop punk Aw, y'all didn't mean that, that's not right. Y'all not right yo. Give it to my people in the hardcore! And last and final contestant, show some love, Youngcore I think we got a winner