Golden age sages write rhymes to the beat
of falling acorns, dropping and clopping
their steel-toe boots are off as the sun climbs
from Aurora’s terrace, steady mobbing:
It was a long night, filled with countless MC’s
all ringed in a cypher to please their gods
and patrons, invoking their names under trees
whose breadth was a blanket from the dark clouds:
It rained on the fields in silvery streams
as Luna shone, flashing her crooked smile;
the price of abundance was rainy dreams
and the liquid flows that they spit with style:
No fake MC’s, just the truest contenders
that knew only springs, not autumns or winters.