Come gather ‘round poets
Whatever your grade
And admit that the rappers
Have altered your trade
And accept that new words
That don’t fit will be made
If a rhyme to you is worth makin’
So forget about grammar
All that English will fade
For the rhymes they are a fakin’….er…changin’

Come gangstas and brothas
Alliterate now and then
And keep the hos fly
Their pants tight ass my fren’
And don’t speak too clear
You know where that mouth’s been
And the cussin’ there really ain’t shame in
And the louder now
Turn it way up to “ten”
For the rhymes they are a blamin’….er…changin’

Come lyricists, songwriters
You’re about-faced
Don’t stand on tradition
Or even good taste
Take all your great lines
And throw them in the waste
It’s the Hip-hop that sells--pulls the wage in
It’ll soon bust your eardrums
And run from in haste
For the rhymes prove how you’re agin’….er…are a changin’

Come mothas and f***as
Throughout the hood
Those right wing old guys
Just ain’t understood
Your sons and your daughters
Know when somethin’ good
Those old words need some re-arrangin’
Please get used to the new terms
Like you know that you should
For the rhymes they are a changin’….er…mutatin’

The lines are all blurred
Both racial and writ
The bad scribe once
Will later be “it”
It’s not the first time
There’s gold made from sh*t
The borders are rapidly fadin’
And the worst one now
Will be writin’ a hit
For the rhymes they are not gradin’….er…changin’