Ye Olde Hippe-Hoppe Shoppe

Hear ye hear ye, ’tis a proclamation,

‘Bout the upcoming coronation.

The king is dead!

Now the prince be king.

To protect our heads,

Long live the king!

My name is MC Horse, and this be DJ Cart

Get your ass in the stable

‘Fore the party starts.

We got mead and gruel

And the blackest bread.

Did you hear the crazy shit

That the crier said?

I hear the plagues in town,

Which one you ask?

It’s Pneumonic and Bubonic,

Best known as black.

But don’t forsake it G,

We got it all worked out–

The beats and the bass

Will keep them damn fleas out!

No needs for a bleeding

Or for an arsenic rub,

Just grab a fresh flagon

From the liquor tub.

We got a fiefdom here,

For all you serfs of rap.

And tonight this party’s

Giving all tithes back.

Forsooth you say,

Yo, I forsooth you better.

And I’m dropping mad rhymes

Like a monk writes letters.

Cause he’s the only one

Who be literati,

All roads lead to Rome and the Illuminati.

Enough poking around

Behind them gilded drapes,

Or we’ll find ourselves

In inquisitionist straits.

So back to the party,

And the task at hand,

And bend yourself to it

Like DJ Cart demands,

He’s gonna turn it out,

Like he was the Duke of G’s.

And all you party peasants

Get olde time funky.

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