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August 19th nineteen seven five a child was born, amidst the strife of ghetto life yet he defied the norm,
the beast's belly wouldn't use his body parts to feed, so at the tender age of four this young'n starts to read.
It seemed his brain craved knowledge that a book could sure provide, while TV taught him creativity secures the mind,
he grew through craziness, the boy survived; was then a man, the voice inside his head became the pen inside his hand.
For years he lived so reckless while observing how the times, had changed for worse or better; took some weight in how he rhymed,
he got with Stone’s House Entertainment; baby sh!t was fine, producing and recording tracks as JD69.
Ain’t nothin happened afterwards except his heart grew old, his Stinky Faces born but nonetheless his heart grew cold,
the cynicism bitterness are running things; it’s true, so call this grown boy Mister or The Cunning Linguist who,
can break a rhyme to fractions while he builds it up again, you’ll find him rollin by himself most times so f*ck a friend,
except for those who’ve had him through the hurt; he’s paved the way, so Happy Birthday T.C.L. he’s 38 today.
©2013
The Cunning Linguist
