Check Mic

Is this thing on?

Word Count: 294

Type type type. Write write write. Left right hook side up down vibe right. You all caught that said he rookie G, hoping to catch some recognition. I lay that down, did you hear? The computer doesn’t work. Mic check 1 2 1 2 3. Lay that down again, would ya?
The studio rolled royal: gold frames on the old school hidden in the middle of the room recording booths. Black draped canals arteried through the hallways: creative spaces designed for residual bakers.
What was that one? I didn’t record anything, Gary made. Who’s Gary? Rookie. Rookie G. Just call me Gary now I wasn’t provoking anything.
If you rhyme head with a state of life and you’re not referring to the acid band, you have to watch what direction you throw those words: you driving that train on cocaine Rookie?
Slide slide small ball roll. Keep it called so fall to the submission of all. One two three, I can’t speak. Recorders aren’t on Sonny B. It’s rookie G. Sorry Sonny. No. My name is Rookie G.
By 4 a.m. he had charged his credit card up to $1000. The gold chips were peeling, and the smoke was staining the walls. Karaoke? Tapioca? Whiskey neat? Nah. He said no to none of them – those weren’t any invites.
Rimmarummachimmachumma wookawook! Jump.
He’s hitting the booth with his fashion hooks and passion tokes and lashin looks and we’re all the same at the end of the daaaaay.
The baaaaaaass boost boasts its boat moan: ewwww. Let me out let me out.
The charge has been declined. And now it’s the lead-in because his wedding cake sits at the funeral’s bar.
Whiskey demure, glamour’s adjourn, he’s back on the streets, and he’s no one to meet.