The Rapper smiles at the free soap box he is given

and he uses it, controls it, manipulates and exploits it,

until the box irrevocably falls to pieces,

joist by rusted nail, plank by frayed duct tape…

yet even when his vitriol makes no sense, when the fans

take the shit he spouts to be gospel and they don’t even

question music history and the small cog in a connecting  wheel

he plays, admittedly a hundred times bigger than the mechanism

I run at full speed upon and forever going backwards,