And a Swiss rapper went to New York to get inspired.

In his own language, yes, inspired.

As street lights conspired, like the stars over the alps.

Being Helvetic, it sometimes helps.

He doesn’t frequent any restaurants from home.

He doesn’t talk to friends who speak his tongue.

Nobody knows him as he strolls along


Wall Street seems so overwhelmingly big,

Even when compared to Mountains: his gig.

And the Swiss rapper gets inspired. He does. He gets inspired.

Words formulated in his mind.

One of a kind.

And the city that inspired him, it won’t ever understand.

The Swiss rapper raps in a country of advanced age. Nobody enjoys his art.

He is skilled, his rhymes are state of the art.

Like shit from the MOMA, but in Lucerne, Europe Square 1, they don’t care.

In St. Gallen, they call it stuff for a fair, a sordid affair.

Blush, cry, click, click, gone.

The Swiss rapper expresses himself in an underappreciated art form.

Shooting questions at him, drilling holes into the cheese.

With lame puns like these, do you think you appease?

Looking over the Hudson, he dreams of the Zürisee

Why don’t you drink champagne, why so blasé?

You try to put your whole energy into crafting something, like a nugget, pure gold.

Only to be told

That it’s worthless because you’re bold, because you were born where people are old.

A foreshadowing, foretold. An alphorn in the distance. In Harlem they kill over mold.

Blatantly ignoring what looks so forlorn but what shines brighter than American teeth.

You heard him, he’s churning; the lady’s not for turning.

Smooth butter from milk, if words were a fabric: silk.

But in a language without audience, is he just rambling?

Scrambling to make a dime, maybe now’s his time.

But current trends predict otherwise.

They told him to come to New York.  Wise?

And the Swiss rapper is doing something no one can understand.

If he wanted to reach his people, his art’d have to be bland.

So, like Van Gogh, he will be appreciated when he’s gone.

Perhaps. At least the sun shone

Over the Hudson. He was the watchmaker’s mad son.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s