Ode to a Poetry Slam Loser

I am just a Slam kill, I am lame.
The poems of my rivals have put me to shame.
I've never gotten anywhere up on that stage.
Think I'd be more successful at my age.

Met a man named Able, he drove an oil rig
kept a girl in every state,
but he swore he was no pig.
He said that love's for pleasure,
then there's doin' it for fun
his piece was not his mistress
he was married to his gun.
He swore he'd burned a dozen men
and never shed a tear
that the only man worth killing
is the man who shows his fear.
He drove that oil rig with such madness
it's a shame.
I couldn't say I'm sorry, though,
I guess that's not my game.

He asked, "Well, what do you do, Cane?"
I said that I write verse.
He shouted, "Boys what have we here?
Some fag forgot his purse!"
They took me to the moon shine
I saw immortal heights
I'd walk down there among you
but the noose is much too tight.
I saw the face of Shakespeare
when they hanged me from that tree
Phyllis Wheatley, Dryden, Pope, John Donne,
and then in my heart
I saw the shimmering image
of the poet with a thousand names.

But alas, I am just a Slam kill,
my God I am so lame.
It's strange they call me "Cane"
the one I carry is no prop
it gets me where I'm going
without it
I'm so lame I'd have to hop.