Between 8 bars and ancestral chants hip hop was born.

The block was ablaze- cats chillin with 40 ounces and lemonade, spitting over broken onomatopoeias.

Scat, Scat Scatting filled the air, as B-boys and B-girls pop one bone only to followed by another.

Only to find that the boys traded their scats in for gold chains and four finger rings and the girls popped more than bones in videos

The blocks became naked as Def Jams and Colombia records clothed us in illusional glory

a pheonix hip hop arose from the ashes of the party, only to be caged by assimilation and appropritation

See Bieber, Iggy, and Nicki are not hip hop.

But a derivative of a dying bird

only to find it is caged too like its mother

see there is no hope in record sells

rappers selling souls for retail

with no space for realness to rebel

yet like a phoneix hip hop will rise again

death is just the beginning