“We Paid”

You are.
I write lyrical masterworks.
You mumble into a microphone.
How corrupt is this society?

You hold wads of cash.
I sit in a pair of pajamas with a hole in the crotch.
You paid alright.
Two step beats,
A couple of bells,
And a mumble with some talk of Glocks. 

You're free to do it.
But if the market pays you
And not me, 
Who's written epic poems...
It's pretty sad.