SING TO ME MUSE, OF VELOUR AND THE MAN
the dooming sting of the slams that ruined so many
the chumps and the bustas hurled headlong into gloom
to sip bitter cola with the sluts and kinky-haired hoes,
dollar store shit, not even brand-name;
thus was the will of Zeus.
Begin with the wit of that lord--
the Ultimate Hustler
who descended like night upon the bright shores
of unfortunate Troy where the Achaeans all camped.
As the sun in his splendor, spangles his rays
upon the folds of the sea when the day is just dawning
so too was the light that came from the mouth
of that merciless pimp, for nigga he had
hella fine platinum up in his grill.
And seeing the masses of Grecians, a full generation
set for ten years in grim siege on the sand
the Hustler rattled his cane, a thunderous funk
and made known his will.

                                   "Well well well
guess now be a good time to buy stock in coconut oil and cock rings
since y’all look like you ready to storm Fire Island and start a pride parade.
First time I seen a fleet of ships using they momma’s dirty drawers as sails.
That ain’t no Mycenaean insignia, that just where she couldn’t reach around ta wipe.
An do I see Odysseus sticking gettin rutty with that handmaid? Ima call Ithaca,
tell em they all need to file a missin bustas report.”

All through the camp, men fell transfixed
laid out by the insults that poured like hard rain
upon the wearied and weak. It seemed as a plague
that ran through the ranks, a vast rippling breath
like when the wind, blown black in the dusk
touches the grain and withers the stalks
and the farmers they gather what once was fine crop
and set it to torch to weep at the flames.

Mighty Achilles, a lion in temper, stepped onto the shore
from his proud flanks flashed fierce indignation
at the Ultimate Hustler, the man like dark wine all richly attired.
When kings go out hunting, they bring with them dogs,
tightly-haunched hounds with foam on their teeth.
The pack is arrayed, and now catches the scent
of a rabbit or stag and strains at the leash,
their limbs at the ready, their eyes full of death,
and finally their master loosens the rein
so was the wrath of Achilles that long had lain quiet,
now aimed at the Hustler and hot for its prey.

				“Whether you be
a dark Ethiopian far from your home or else
a sunburnt man from a sunburnt land, Achilles
cares not. You now forfeit your life.”

So said Achilles, and drew forth his spear, the heft on his shoulder
the point all of bronze and, taking his aim, hurled it full force
like a bolt from Olympus.
				But Mandingo was watching,
god of the Dozens, and turned it astray.

All there assembled, Achaean and Trojan, saw Achilles’ first failure
and soon wicked Rumor, with her venom and bile, started to whisper
that ain’t nobody choked that bad since yo momma
try deepthroating a Titan. 
                                The Hustler boomed out his mirth.

“Next time you wanna give me yo shaft, make believe I’m Patroclus’ stankhole
and there ain’t no way you missin. Oh I forgot, Hector currently using that bitch
as a hood ornament. Take him down to the kennels, he metamorphose 
into kibbles and bits. That nigga, he dead.
And what up with that armor? Shit’s tacky. Bet that breastplate come with a horn
play “Lowrider” when you goosesteppin through the ranks.
Ain’t it bad enough you got grease face? Been, what, twenty years since yo momma
dip you in tha Styx, and the Hades EPA still tryin to clean the oil slick, 
declaring it unfit for animal habitation.
My nigga Charon spark up a fatty, throw the match overboard,
shit goes up like Mt Etna.”

Mighty Achilles groaned like the ocean, let fall his arms to the ash at his feet.
Betaken by sorrow, he sought out his tent and the drowse of his harem
where black-visaged grief crept from the shadows. Like the waxes of Hybla
it muzzled his mind, stopped up his ears, made deaf his heart
to all the sweet pleas of men and immortals.

Just at that moment, the figure of Helen, awake in the city,
appeared on the walls. King Menelaos, the chariot driver,
gnashed all his teeth and raged at the day
she was promised as prize to craven Prince Paris 
and doomed distant Troy.
				She was spied by the Hustler.

“Shit, ain’t it the daughter of Leda and a swan.
Bitch squirt up a douche, get a bowful of duck soup. 
That the face launched a thousand ships? They all musta
gone looking for that most mythical of treasures, cure for dick blisters.
Only time the topless towers of Ilium get burned is when they go take a leak,
get funky discharge look like something Cerberus leave on yo carpet.
Bitch been ploughed more times than the winedark sea. Yeah
I droppin some poetical shit here. Fuck ya if ya hatin.
Everyone heard Helen so tough and hangly down there, she legally obligated
to have the Arby’s logo tattooed on her snatch.
Priam still around? Get him out here.
That nigga so old, last time he manage to pop wood, 
Pandora’s box just got some peach fuzz
and Priapus’ balls ain’t even drop yet.
This some brokedown city y’all got here. Couple thousand years, Heinreich Schliemann
dig this place up, wonder what the hell the luddy convention was doin in town.
All looking like somebody built a group home for Cyclops crackheads.”

His counsel at end, the Hustler arose and took to the air
in the form of a bird, feathers jet-black, leaving all stunned.
Sometime a hunter when the race has been run
surveys the beast his arrows brought low,
admires the flank and the struggling faint breaths,
and though its life is near gone strings one last shaft
to take cold delight in an unneeded wound.
So now the Hustler, in no haste to leave,
flung finally a barb down into the field.

“First I thought that wicker tinker toy was the Trojan Horse,
but now y’all inside it, I see it just a raggedy-assed fruit basket.
And yo toga look like a dishrag.”

Tearing her hair, Queen Hecuba led
her waxen-faced ladies in an ebon procession
to Athena’s white temple, hoping the goddess
would pity their plight, grant Troy gray-eyed mercy.
Greeks and Dardanians, all there assembled, hearing the wail
added their voices to the keening and crying
and it is said that even Olympus covered its face
for the great lamentation:
				“Damn.”