The Man of Tin

Like ‘Boom Boom’ Boris Becker, my wreckage comes from this racket; serve me verbiage to swing at and sure enough I will smack it, put your problems on my back and I’ll shoulder them like a jacket, in this tournament of champs, I’m the only stamp on the bracket.

Backing up no longer, I’m feeling stronger than any superpower, Bauer to this pace, I’m just racing the time until my final hour is upon me and I am no longer clocking in, but until then I’ll spend my life powering on my will to win.

The Man of Tin, sitting in bargain bins spitting out these flows, just rowing out prolific exhibits of picket signage prose, an overdose of omens and moments of motion comatose, verbose engrossing boasting of coast to coast roasting diagnosed.

Still I suppose that nobody knows the way I flow in codes, both friend and foe just can’t seem to grasp my passion overload, respect I’m owed, but I’m just not getting it, so I go and goad and hope for gold while moseying bold on down my yellow road.

I’m ‘a la mode’ exploding through fashionable ways of writing rhymes and lining speak like beats in a bind, just call me sign of times, my mind is finding ways to display an amazing maze design, while pining for enshrinement assignments that tighten up my spine.

My shine is blinding doubters, about to unleash a cosmic bomb, atomically bionic and sonically calming phonic palm in blister histrionics, just call me Mr. Miyagi, Si, I’m kicking swift ironic with comical Daniel-sunning speed.

No need to try and pry into what I am laying down for you, just proving I can stand up to anyone in this slang enthuse, my muse is brain and she’s an insanely deranged exclaim excuse for cruising down this road of prose overload mode and venom views.

Written by Tyler Wagner