If you wanna throw down with me, you gotta have the quills to stand tall.
I just had an AWESOME night hanging out with new friend dude I met while busking last week. Turns out he lives in my neighborhood. We just hung out, made music, chatted randomly, played bocce in the backyard at 2AM, and totally enjoyed one another's company.
We also did a trash-talk poetry squabble! He wrote out this sonnet about how young poets ain't shit if they can't at least bust out a sonnet before breaking into new forms.
And I wrote out this sonnet about how he was sitting next to me, I'd be finished first, he was peeking at my screen, and I'm better than him.
Nathan's diatribe, on paper coincident with my own example below.
Why have our modern poets all forsaken
That discipline of metre we call verse?
Perhaps they wanted something new and better
But all I hear is something new and worse.
They have that ancient standard siezed and taken
To fling it down and stomp it in the dirt
But I am of the older school a debtor
To show it such disdain does me great hurt.
They do not even have a thing to say,
Their meaning is unclear, their syntax loose.
Their poems but consist of so much nonsense. [play?]
They do not show the sense God gave a goose.
Not one in ten of them I'd say is game
To write a simple sonnet, that's a shame.
Nathan Reed, 2013
My response, written while waiting for him to produce the above text:
You sit beside me, vodka in your glass
And pen in hand, you think to challenge me.
But now I think I know what bother'th thee,
It's how I am about to school your ass.
You have to know the flow to go 'gainst he
Who wears a hamster costume with such class.
You're out of depth, I fear I must be crass
But schooling fools is just how hamsters be.
I'll finish first as well, just watch me work,
And hardly backspace used a second time;
And hardly pausing even catching breath.
So now I'll block the screen from peeking jerk.
Pentameter iambic is the rhyme;
The trash-talk sonnet battle is your death.
∞², five minutes before you.
We also did a trash-talk poetry squabble! He wrote out this sonnet about how young poets ain't shit if they can't at least bust out a sonnet before breaking into new forms.
And I wrote out this sonnet about how he was sitting next to me, I'd be finished first, he was peeking at my screen, and I'm better than him.
Nathan's diatribe, on paper coincident with my own example below.
Why have our modern poets all forsaken
That discipline of metre we call verse?
Perhaps they wanted something new and better
But all I hear is something new and worse.
They have that ancient standard siezed and taken
To fling it down and stomp it in the dirt
But I am of the older school a debtor
To show it such disdain does me great hurt.
They do not even have a thing to say,
Their meaning is unclear, their syntax loose.
Their poems but consist of so much nonsense. [play?]
They do not show the sense God gave a goose.
Not one in ten of them I'd say is game
To write a simple sonnet, that's a shame.
Nathan Reed, 2013
My response, written while waiting for him to produce the above text:
You sit beside me, vodka in your glass
And pen in hand, you think to challenge me.
But now I think I know what bother'th thee,
It's how I am about to school your ass.
You have to know the flow to go 'gainst he
Who wears a hamster costume with such class.
You're out of depth, I fear I must be crass
But schooling fools is just how hamsters be.
I'll finish first as well, just watch me work,
And hardly backspace used a second time;
And hardly pausing even catching breath.
So now I'll block the screen from peeking jerk.
Pentameter iambic is the rhyme;
The trash-talk sonnet battle is your death.
∞², five minutes before you.