MCD

“I’m a dope MC. I got mad skills, yo.”

That’s what he kept telling himself,

under his breath as he rode his bike

up and down these small town streets.

“I’m a dope MC. I got mad skills, yo.”

He wrote his name over and over

with a red Sharpie on his notebooks.

“MCD, MCD, MCD…”

He tried to make it look cool,

like “Wild Style” graffiti,

like an NYC subway tag,

like he was down for whatever.

It didn’t take long for life to reveal that

he was, in fact, a shitty MC and

that he did not possess mad skills after all.

A week later,

he returned to slow, sleepy reality and

resumed collecting baseball cards and

making sweet love to the Victoria’s Secret catalogue

he kept under his mattress.

 

 

 

  • Copyright Timothy Downs
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