He a song. His boxing all jazz, how he move like notes from a sax, crooning around the ring, his footsteps light like on the piano, always dancing to his own tune bop to the beat of his hands the rhythm of his body a sweet melody, against the ropes he a harpist strumming until his opponent tire and he again champion, you see his head dip, a scat, you see his punch, happening and happening more brutally sweet, he sing a song on a challengers chin, leave them falling to the ground, and he soaring a beautiful rift.
His activism all hip-hop, thug life and boom bap, bring em out bring out bring em out its hard ta yell when the barrels in yo mouf, he talk about the government, a trap hymn, rant well before Sway didn’t have the answers, soapbox miracle, he Malcolm Martin a legendary cypher, spit a dope 16 about Vietcong and big powerful America, drop bars that sicken medicine injuring stones, Black and beautiful a chant a practice a life. His voice all soul, original, raining purple showering us all, bass guitar flashy lights roll bounce, funk, he say I’m the greatest and a spotlight appears the room becomes a 1950s club with flickering lights and he sings on, it’s not just his imagination running away but a declaration, a viewing of holiday.
His legacy all gospel, we were never ready for the miracle or the blessing, ultralight beaming forever on in glory glory, glorious man, sunshine and dance and hallelujah, praise to the warrior you be praise to your Black your beautiful your man … praise to your compassion praise to how you teach love and continue to breathe praise the crown you made for yourself praise the crown you made for me! praise you and all your music forever and always The Greatest song happening, and happening still.
