Dribbling

At the top of the key, I’m

MOVING & GROOVING,

POPping and ROCKING—

Why you BUMPING?

Why you LOCKING?

Man, take this THUMPING.

Be careful though,

’cause now I’m CRUNKing

CrissCROSSING

FLOSSING

flipping

and my dipping will leave you

S

   L

      I

         P

            P

               I

                  N

                     G on the floor, while I

SWOOP in

to the finish with a fierce finger roll . . .

Straight in the hole:

Swoooooooooooosh.

Josh Bell

is my name.

But Filthy McNasty is my claim to fame.

Folks call me that

’cause my game’s acclaimed,

so downright dirty, it’ll put you to shame.

My hair is long, my height’s tall.

See, I’m the next Kevin Durant,

LeBron, and Chris Paul.

 

Remember the greats,

my dad likes to gloat:

I balled with Magic and the Goat.

But tricks are for kids, I reply.

Don’t need your pets

my game’s so

fly.

 

Mom says,

Your dad’s old school,

like an ol’ Chevette.

You’re fresh and new,

like a red Corvette.

Your game so sweet, it’s a crêpes suzette.

Each time you play

it’s ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL net.

 

If anyone else called me

fresh and sweet,

I’d burn mad as a flame.

But I know she’s only talking about my game.

See, when I play ball,

I’m on fire.

When I shoot,

I inspire.

The hoop’s for sale,

and I’m the buyer.

How I Got My Nickname

I’m not that big on jazz music, but Dad is.

One day we were listening to a CD

of a musician named Horace Silver, and Dad says,

 

Josh, this cat is the real deal.

Listen to that piano, fast and free,

Just like you and JB on the court.

 

It’s okay, I guess, Dad.

Okay? DID YOU SAY OKAY?

Boy, you better recognize

 

greatness when you hear it.

Horace Silver is one of the hippest.

If you shoot half as good as he jams—

 

Dad, no one says “hippest” anymore.

Well, they ought to, ’cause this cat

is so hip, when he sits down he’s still standing, he says.

 

Real funny, Dad.

You know what, Josh?

What, Dad?

 

I’m dedicating this next song to you.

What’s the next song?

Only the best song,

the funkiest song

on Silver’s Paris Blues album:

“FILTHY

McNASTY.”

At first

I didn’t like

the name

because so many kids

made fun of me

on the school bus,

at lunch, in the bathroom.

Even Mom had jokes.

 

It fits you perfectly, Josh, she said:

You never clean your closet, and

that bed of yours is always filled

with cookie crumbs and candy wrappers.

It’s just plain nasty, son.

 

But, as I got older

and started getting game,

the name took on a new meaning.

And even though I wasn’t into

all that jazz,

every time I’d score,

rebound,

or steal a ball,

Dad would jump up

smiling and screamin’,

That’s my boy out there.

Keep it funky, Filthy!

 

And that made me feel

real good

about my nickname.

Filthy McNasty

is a MYTHical MANchild

Of rather dubious distinction

Always AGITATING

COMBINATING

and ELEVATING                  his game

He      dribbles

fakes

then  takes

the ROCK to the

glass, fast, and on BLAST

But watch out when he shoots

or you’ll get SCHOOLed

  FOOLed

UNCOOLed

’Cause when FILTHY gets hot

He has a SLAMMERIFIC SHOT

It’s

Dunkalicious CLASSY

Supersonic SASSY

and    D

O

W

N right

in your face

mcNASTY