They call me baby B,
Coined as B.B.
Or lowercase bb
Capitalizing on me, the Notorious B.E.C.
Trivializing as “Bexy”
For embracing sexuality
Being more than a blonde b—
Just ask Slim Shady.
They call me Lady Slim Shady,
Shame me with my “crazy.”
Catch me on that fourth degree
Burning, but untouched by your stupidity,
Always learning.
Amused by ‘u’ like a Jacobean
Comedy.
Tragedy: being wack
—Wait, bring it back—
To B,
Criticizing my name,
Questioning my game:
Saying it's 'Too
Packed,' stacked.
Matched: it's 2Pac,
Akin to "mock," Jack
Off, alone beggin' for Mary,
As in Mary Jane, while I burn
MJ then Mary J B,
With B.I.G.
Played back, just for me
(Much o'bliged).
And occasionally,
My
—Bang! Bang!—
Baby...
Shot me down, like Nancy
By reducing me to “bar girl”
Dubbed by bar boys and Barbies
So I claimed my damn ID:
(did you see: those baby bangs?)
As DJ BJ
(laugh please).
Stage-name, famed me
For being:
Original, lyrical, slightly (Smalls)
Political, quite (hard) metal, grungy,
Synth knocking, R&B
Rocking, me,
Who raps; known locally,
For spitting B.I.G.
[SPAT: “despite being girly”]
[Scratch that,
From the record—yeah I collect records,
un-ironically.
I jazz with Billie
Pretend I’m on Holiday with Stevie,
Debbie—can’t nix Joni or Patti,
Smiths to Clash, Even Crosby
And Nash, jam to Jam and weep to Bowie
For being the original B.
Prince, charmingly
Uprooted the likely ID
Of musical artistry.
Being genre-free
Introduced me
To B.B.
And the King.
I supremely
Thank you,
B.E.C.]
Yes—I say flatly,
BIGGIE
The one and only,
Smalls, East renown,
Lyric king. Back to B,
(Sorry)
(No I’m not)
DJ BJ,
Swift with my words,
A smith of my words.
With my contemporary poetry
Using music, making poesy,
Posers flatter me,
Crown me Queen,
King—such gendered things
—Call me royalty.
In purple, all violet, a’dress me
Like Courtney,
Love me, royally
As a Disc Jockey—
[Current virtuosos
Through transitions, echoes,
Outros’ positioned loops,
Re-master rhymes
At promptly placed times.
Modernized ballads
Catalyze lovers,
Spinning, met'er
When he sees her
Dancing with others
Geez, you’re killin’ my rep B
(Still workin on my repertoire, see)
Get back to the beat, D—o—single g].
—For uniting people nightly
Through song—the classics—like a damn classicist,
Who brings you lyrical deities
Like Greek myths, my artists are prodigies.
DJ’s fine wine and cheeses,
(On ice
Cubed, with gin and juice
—N'a, N’a, Nas, x3 skip the mix,
Go with the Poison, 3 gins).
A regular Dionysus.
Dine with me through 90s
Whines, jams, spreads, thin like pâtés,
(prefer with Salt N Peppa)
Writing in cafes,
On napkins,
Through pseudonym, JLB .
Spun this ID
(So I can be a writer, poetee
…drummer?)
Burn with me, baby.
PM: JLB,
—Back to bb—
Burn thru the AM,
She
Keeps ‘em dancing
With B.E.C.
Sway like tulips
Shouting through pursed lips,
As you drink your hip
Hopps and mint juleps,
—Bang, bang, bangers—
Recalling your glory days;
Late and short twenties,
Some-things
Swooning
As my disc turns,
Last call brings
Mama’s kids, crooning.
Rocking B,
Start prepping your preppy zzz’s
As my beats breeze
By like buzzed bees
—no, like buzzed B’s—
Baby me’s
They try to be.
Scene praising me,
Their bar gurrrl,
Who just simply
Wants them to see:
B.
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