Monday 

Morning.

Clock in. 

Mic on.

Testing, 

testing:

cheque one, 

cheque two.

*

We are

hard-core shuffle MCs.

Those who flex, 

show off, on the 9-to-5 riddim,

spit rhymes 

on the heavy-grind riddim,

freestyle 

on the dead-beat-career riddim.

We are

nothing going on but the rent.

*

Job centres, 

recruitment fayres,

ice hinges, 

frozen door handles.

‘If your name’s not on the list,

you’re not coming in.’

If it isn’t, it wasn’t, it ain’t never gonna be.

If it isn’t, it wasn’t, it ain’t never gonna be.

The world is full of 

corrupt stiff beats.

*

We are 

chasing a dream.

‘Never the face, the accent,

the contacts, It’s not race.’

It’s business.

It’s supply and demand.

There are too many Ethnics,

battle-hardened, educated.

*

Do you know the chat?

Office politic?

Upper-class patois?

Cockney street lingo?

Black British Einsteins

rejected with a Geoff Hirst.

Attila the Hun,

Desmond Tutu or a Douglas Hird?

Is there any point

fighting when

the rhythm, 

the rhymes, 

twisted 

linguistics,

translated desires,

mean nothing?

*

Stuttering 

voices.

We are 

chasing a dream.

We are 

kings and queens

but all they see 

are jesters:

verbal

jousters,

full-time

complainers.

*

There is always

a P.A in a corner,

rapping along  

with Institution FM,

humming,

with soft tones, 

a whisper:

II

Are we 

waiting for 

the full-life remix, 

the re-edit, the rewind, 

the bridge,

the beat, the drop,

III

We are

Metamorphic Monday MCs,

powered up

on the ‘strictly-business’ riddim.

We are

Unplugged rhyme animals.

Mic-off

Icons.

The workers 

on the ‘it’s my thing’ bassline.