A Boshack for the Girl
[Intro]
You’re probably gonna hear this beat around
A lot in the next few; it’s called the ‘boshack’
Take that Bo Diddley, and on top of that
Add a little of that Big Shaq
*skiddy-bap-poom-poom*

Verse 1
She asked “do [I] typically use my guitar
To complete seductions?”; I said “Not this time.”
I don’t tend to like playing two loves off
Against one another, except in rhyme
A tease by eye and ear parades
Delights in tension, benignly aggravates
That we rally so well, the rally can’t fail
The only kind of tennis that plays in a Night Tale
So long and gorgeous that mane, if a lady’s rivery
Locks even be fain called a mane; and yet, see all those
Washerwomen of thought, who are borne over with filthy
Linen, washing that linen in such a beautiful stream
(Yeah, I always talk like this, for what worth is living
Without some handicap for disciplining?)
I rhyme like this, regale like this, dine
Electresses’ love-starved mind like this
I let you wind like this, climb like this
No other time am I so singular of mind like this
I forget the tenderness pricking our cynical touch;
That like a lyric this sweet tryst will come mean both
More and less than it seems, more than you think, less than it is;
And that we’re both pursed with wordslinger’s tricks to make it so writ
But tonight, the entendres; and we free see free as being
Free to act like damn animals, albeit ones with
A well-developed nose for the trophy; DJ Sniffter
Sniff your tear now and play a little boshack for the girls
[Chorus]
Will free her
What frees her will free me;
Will free me and free her

[Post-Chorus 1]
Every time I think that it would be
Too vulgar and too arrogant to imagine
Someone like you, touch proves you true
Once again; but…

[Verse 2]
In love ain’t it true that you took your cue
From Knightsbridge in the summertime? More
Resplendent in what’s gold and fine than Timbuktu, but
Revealing nothing of how your goings come;
Among these noble fridges, club-floor-picked radishes
These maniches of blockhead and boulder you choose
Am I primary stakeholder? That’s to say, am I of pride of place
In the folio in which such tales, cut and un-, are told?
We metropols are all given passports of the free
Bought with promise of our contentment
With only all the riches of dispassion, ignorance, intemperance
If you are happy that freedom hold no more value than this
Then, yes, go free, free forth and spend
Seems to me you’re slave to your every appetite, instinct
And fear; and that seems to me not freedom, not happiness
But why would you, slave, listen to such words uttered
From one who looks such a slave to you? If not slave to a slave?
Perhaps if I ever win acclaim on these works
You will sort through their folds for your song; given the love
That was withheld, it would simply be a song that decries
That its writer has nothing with which, or about, to write
But I will pen something of the culture that placed us so
That redefined love as the art of the using and the used
That pleasured ‘til happiness by pleasure’s abused
And call it “A Boshack for the girl”
[Post-Chorus 2]
Every time I think I'm at my wits end with you
My wit extends just enough that a week later
I find myself at its ends again

[DJ Sniffter]
“Ok let me hear some ‘woo-hoos’ from you now, people
*sniff*”