BOONDOCK SAINT, I mastered THE CRAFT - like E. G. White writing a paragraph - then, BLOW till MY LEFT FOOT feel the draft - don’t make me take my FACE OFF and show you THE DARK HALF. - Then CRASH like I’m DEATHPROOF TAKING LIVES, - ‘cause now I’m in a neighborhood with STEPFORD WIVES - and can’t “phone home”, emcee clone - you know your real personality’s under a TOMBSTONE. - But BAD BOYS KILL for the BILLs and jet, - and the cops pack HEAT LIKE WATER FOR CHOCOLATE, from 9 Mile home of the LEGEND to MAY Pen - where I come from ain’t NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. - It’s more like CITY OF GOD ‘cause KIDS there, - will come up like a SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE - and they live LIFE HARD, but DIE in fray - for A PIECE OF ACTION like Poitier on a Matinée.

Last name DARKO i’m Nice as DEEDS - yet strange like when SYBIL change personalities. - BLADEs, on SCISSORHANDS shape THE TUNE - with my RED VIOLIN on a PURPLE NOON. - I’ll sleep, when i’m dead in a gold COCOON - then RISE like the NOSFERATU from his tomb, - and morph on a NEW MOON like WOLVES would do, - or THE HULK and the SWAMP THING in EVE’S BAYOU. - Wilding, cause it’s a BIG NIGHT when I cook - since my recipe’s straight from THE POISONER’S HANDBOOK, - it slays like the SHOT when she ran up indoors - and CUJO broke THE WINDOW with BLOOD on his JAWS. - SPOOK so I WALK THROUGH WALLS, - THE SOLOIST and I BOW to THUNDERous rounds of applause - when I JAM for THE ADAMS FAM now Wednesday, - is giving me THE EYEs like Betty would on a Matinée!

Veiled as THE ABYSS in DEEP BLUE SEA, - ALPHA DOG of DEAD POET SOCIETY - RHYME, futuristic like I jumped through time - AND REASON with the world’s most BEAUTIFULly woven MINDs. - Bright as a RAY of SUNSHINE - my NOTEBOOK’s ALIVE like FRANKENSTEIN, - you drew FIRST BLOOD but I SWING my words, - just like “the Bear Jew” and pummel you basterds. - KILLing the MOCKINGBIRDs, PLACID as the LAKE - HALF BAKED, surfing to POINT BREAK with - BARRELS of STOCK on LOCK, - Dfens is building the suspense like Alfred Hitchcock.- You GOONIES can’t rock this way, it’s hard - like tryin’ to teach BELOVED to dance BALLET, - ‘cause I write in Sanskrit on rice mâché, - then SOMERSAULT THREE like Bruce Lee on a Matinée.