Old timer who’s a real rap rhymer

I’m bein’ excluded by me age From a genre that’s all the rage, It’s an art-form for the masses But with me date-of-birth it clashes. You can’t do it when you’re old Or that’s what I’m always told But why should I be excluded? Maybe I’m deluded. But . . . I really wanna be a rapper In low-batties, lookin’ dapper. I can’t wait to see their faces When I elongate me braces And me trousers hang so low All me Y-fronts are on show. It won’t be quite the ‘look’ I seek I only change ’em once a week But that’s not up for reversal Have you seen the price of Persil? Anyway, I’ve sorted out me bling, On each finger I’ll wear a ring. It’ll cost hundreds, the jeweller said So I’m using Hula Hoops instead. Proper street cred that may lack But it’s a handy mid-song snack. A gold neck chain was expensive, too, So I’ve taken the chain from our loo, Annoying me bladder-weak daughter Who’s on her 65th bucket of water. I’ve got a big diamond stud in me ear. Well... a crystal from the lounge chandelier. But rap footwear my body scorns ’Cos I’m a martyr to me corns. So it’s slippers instead of trainers; I’m not one of life’s complainers But you can’t perform hop-hip When your feet are givin’ you gyp. With me baseball cap from Saga I’m set to give it large, but larger. The missus just thinks I’m crazy A decrepit middle-aged Jay-Z. ‘Reach the heights of Dizzy Rascal? You get dizzy on a bar stool!’ But the old me is now deceased; I’ve taken the stage name Kanye East But I’ve now totally forgotten me roots I pin me war medals on me shell suits. But one aspect of rap I find harder Than Elvis found ignoring a larder I just cannot get up to speed With the verbosity you need. I can’t do machine-gun diction, Me tongue gets too hot with the friction. Into me gums the heat then ventures And loosens all me dentures. They often fly out in mid-rap Followed by an ominous snap As me denture to breakage succumbs And I’m stood rappin’ through me gums. You young are rappin’ much too fast, It traps us old back in the past We wanna join the revolution But lack the rapid elocution. You’re denyin’ the old a voice Compromisin’ artistic choice. I wanna be a slower rapper, I’ve even coined the term ‘a slapper’. ‘Tomorrow,’ I said to the spouse, ‘There’ll be a slapper in the house.’ Her frying pan left me head throbbin’ In hysterics she phoned her mum sobbin’. She took Mum’s advice in due course, Bent me golf clubs and filed for divorce. It’s really sad we have to part But it’s called suffering for your art. When you’re like me, a rap pioneer, You can’t let marriage with that interfere. If it’s rap or the wife, there’s only one winner. Hold on! Who’s gonna cook me dinner? G. Cope, London E14.