Rap is not
“the death of poetry”,
rather the honing of tools
poets have used for centuries:

pounding rhythms;
rhymes welding lines together;
staccato stanzas stuffed with perfect words;
themes to resurrect to soul!

A well wrought rap

is Dickinson on steroids
leaving Higginson gasping.

Is Frost in the woods he thinks he knows,
clear-cutting detritus with his chainsaw.

Is a rapier in the gold-medaled-grip of a fencer
dueling a dull ax in a drunks shaky hand
as he slurs doggerel in sloppy iambic pentameter.

No worries mate!

Poetry is – wrapped – in safe hands
and the Muses smile.