“Bottom sixes and chains, and some bracelets and rings
All of the little accents that make me a king”
-Drake
The golden microphone glowed.
Like the diamonds in his watch.
His verbal technique he showed.
He took his skills up a notch.
Cups of tea soothed his throat.
Champagne tickled.
Extra honey got his vote.
The thoughts soon trickled.
He appreciated the tiny crew.
What some would call a gang
It was something that he knew
When he sang.
Their actions though small
Exponentially emboldened him.
Just a text or a call
Caused him to value them.
His wife, her face looked smart.
He knew that it was his head
Not his heart
That made him tread.
The diamonds and platinum glittered.
Not materialism but thought
Allowed the jewels to be littered
On rings that the jeweler had wrought.
He found his earned crown
By being the best lyricist among many.
In history he would go down,
His competition wouldn’t be any.
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Skyler Saunders
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Smartystan
Chanda sent home money every two weeks. In a small village in India, she deposited money into the bank account of her Aunt and Uncle who sent her to live in America. The place seemed so remote, almost cut off from the rest of the country. There, a festival took place where participants hurled cow eliminations at each other. The muddy, mucky sense of it had been known for centuries. Locals tied it to an ancient god who they believed restored people’s health with the cow plops. During the festival, thick patties hurled through the air and smushed into the bodies and faces of those rollicking around in the filth.
By Skyler SaundersExclusive • 3 days ago
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