Who somehow swept the rap categories at Sunday’s Grammys? “Quoth the white man, ‘Macklemore.’”
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I tweeted weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and topical blog post of ironic lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one badly rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
‘`Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘rapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember in the third grade, bleak December,
Listening to the stereo while laying on my bedroom floor.
The best – Biggie, Jay-Z and Nas; – vainly I sought their sounds because
I never heard anything like this from the stereo before –
For the rare and radiant flow I needed to hear more –
I needed to hear much more.
But outside now the wax and wane of each of this rapper’s refrain
Chilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
‘`Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so poorly you came rapping,
And so weakly you came rapping, rapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Hearing, hearing beats no mortal could stand to hear before;
But the hip hop beats were broken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whisper, ‘Macklemore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured faintly, ‘Macklemore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a rapping somewhat louder than before.
‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is someone at my window lattice;
Let it not be him, that white devil I’ve heard much about before –
Let my heart be still a moment, dear God above I implore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter
In there stepped the whitest man America could have bore,
Not the least of all sense made he; a tank top and fur coat wore he;
And, with with thighs all pale and pasty, perched above my chamber door –
Perched on a poster of Tupac just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and rapped some more.
Then this ivory turd beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the tired and worn face like Toby from The Office he wore,
‘Come on, I’ll make you coffee (coffee),’ he rapped, ‘and a bagel (bagel)’
Ghastly grim and feeling sick I begged him spare me no more
‘And another bagel (two bagels)’ he continued like before!
Quoth the white man, ‘Macklemore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear him spit so plainly,
Though his lines had little meaning – little relevancy bore;
Ever yet was blessed looking like one opened a teleporter’s door –
And threw inside Rin Tin Tin and pineapples galore
With such a name as ‘Macklemore.’
But the white man, sitting lonely on poor Tupac’s bust, spoke only,
‘Ay, ay, ay, ay, you go to work I mow the lawn,’ he swore
‘Ay, ay, ay, ay, you make the cheese, I’ll bring the guac (nacho sauce, Spanish)’
Till I scarcely more than muttered ‘my ear drums they have tore –
Please leave me be, you giant thumb, my hearing is no more.’
Then the man said, ‘Macklemore.’
I’m not trying to be racial, but he’s like a human facial
‘How is it,’ said I, ‘that you look each second more,
Like the cartoon boy Doug Funnie, had a baby with a mummy.
You even look like Roger Klotz, I see that even more.
No, you’re all the characters in Doug combined, even Patty,’ I swore,
‘Please spare me – nevermore.’
But the human toilet just grinned, and opened his lid to break wind,
‘Ay, ay, ay, you buy the clothes, I’ll take them off (JNCOS! FUBU!)
Ay, ay, ay, ay, I’m a stay at home dad, this is my job,’ he roared.
Like someone poured milk onto a Vanilla Ice sound board,
This sentient foot with a shaved head and a mop top of days yore
Kept on croaking ‘Macklemore.’
Can you begin to estimate, how many words for white I’ll state?
For this alabaster sham, from simile to metaphor,
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
As he squawked and squealed and screeched and began to start all o’er
My recline turned to recoil and I knocked my chair right o’er
He shall press, ah, nevermore!
I thought of all the thinkpiece posts, The New York Times’ I hated most,
What was it they said again? That phrase I did such abhor,
‘The first post-black pop-star rapper’ – flush those words right down the crapper
Terrible – terrible words of some masturbation and what for?
Stop, oh stop with the thinkpieces, and forget this white bore!
Quoth the Times, ‘Macklemore.’
And tonight it was the Grammys, the thought left me cold and clammy,
Thinking of the awards this clown was nominated for.
Best rap album and best rap song, you know there’s something very wrong,
If he wins in any category over the other four.
He smiled as if to read my thoughts, perched on my chamber door.
Quoth the white man, ‘Macklemore.’
I thought, ‘there’s no way he could win!’ but alas – to my poor chagrin
The votes were being tallied and my heart sank to the floor,
He swept all of the rap trophies, making me feel sick with unease.
A terrible nightmare, a fever dream it was I could have swore,
I mean have you listened to Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City before?
Quoth the white man, ‘Macklemore.’
‘Be that word our sign of parting, turd or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
‘Get thee back to whatever circle of hell you call yours!
Leave me be you human haircut, looking like the most pale of butts!’
And even still the man would not leave his perch on my chamber door,
‘Ay, ay, ay, ay,’ he crowed and I feared he would rap some more,
Quoth the white man, ‘Macklemore.’
And the white man, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the sad poster of Tupac just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming
Of winning album of the year, the ultimate award of lore.
Could it happen? Did we let it happen? – this I implore.
Please say no, to Macklemore.
Bibliography:
Lyrics to Macklemore’s “Stay at Home Dad” — Rap Genius
“Power Doses of a Rapper’s Idiosyncratic Religion” — The New York Times
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Art by Yvonne Martinez.