Liquid Sole Trader (the accountancy rap)

Open your books and I’ll give you the double-entry,
Throw me some looks and your receipt’ll be evidentiary.
I’m your man for the partnership,
Let me know when the party’s hip.
My company’s unlimited, my goods are set to ship.

I’m double-taking on your asset valuation,
Show me your lips and I’ll show you appropriation.
Appreciation. Yeah. My lovin’ is capital,
How else could I rap it all?
I’m the liquid Sole Trader (and my rappin’ is topical).

Take my last word ‘fore I close the book,
It’s the final account, ‘bout to let your body off the hook.
Don’t go dropping your name on my bad debt,
I’ll be rockin’ along ‘cos I’ll see through my threat.
Yo, mess with the Sole Trader: you’ll get yo ass-et.

Might tidy the meter up when I'm not supposed to be revising for an accounts exam!

Mr Smooth

I’m in despair,
Racking my brains as I maintain the stare.
Every second sucking at my confident redeploy,
Moving me crabwise from the man to the boy.

It’s twenty paces across the floor,
From me to you, or to the door.
This tidal beat’ll take me where I wanna go,
One question: Should I ebb or should I flow?

Quit the inquisitioning, requisitioning,
Time for the acquisitioning.
I’m looking at my target and I’ve got a lock,
Six seconds later: We’re alone on the same rock.

A voice declares: “Mr. Smooth and the future Lady Smooth”,
As I kino your arm with my slow motion move,
No names, its all about the mystery,
No lines ‘cos turn-offs, turn-downs and turn-outs are history.

I’ve got three minutes to squeeze out the sceptic,
Press the right buttons and draw out the amoristic.
I knew you’ve got the looks, and now I can see,
You’ve got the spirit to match and you know you match me.

Time’s up and I’ve made my impression,
Your number on my hand, not the time for suppression,
Time’s right so I take a tip from the pros,
The time is now, and I step up for the kiss close.

mrsmooth.wav (6.8mb) - Still not quite how it sounds in my head (after 12 attempts) but getting there!

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Number 4

It’s 6AM,
Empty buses are drifting past my window,
Bathed in the lamplight orange glow,
Imagine the crispness of the air,
As they open their great lungs.
The road-sweeper rattles his cart along the pavement.

Almost empty.
Nearly all the buses have a single rider,
The early birds,
Always on the bottom floor,
Always on the right beside the pushchair space.
Evidently the best seat on an almost empty bus.

They never look up.
Even though the bus is empty but for them,
They never look to passing windows for companionship.
Never look to the almost empty streets to see who’s there,
Not even to the solitary lampposts standing guard.

I can see a well-pressed suit waiting at the bus stop down the road,
I see his breath floating on the air,
As the bus approaches, he looks to it and not the driver,
And I wonder. Which is the second-best seat on an almost empty bus,
And is it by the first?