Wish I were a little bit better at rapping.
I'd put the feather to cap in the manner of mapping 
what happened:
now Frontalot achieved something. That's what they'd 
say.
He went from terrible to mediocre. Maybe okay
could be in the cards later. As of yet, not quite.
Of the hand, the mic, then of the tongue, the sleight:
it's how to pull tricks on the ear. "You rap well."
Thanks for your sincerity but prepare to see dispelled
any notion of my aptitude that you once held.
Could fit what's felled through the button hole in my 
lapel:
slimmest sprout of a mic technique, clipped & cut.
I'll try to reseed after I get dug out my rut...
which could occur! In my fantasies, improve each night.
Real life lags afterwards, perhaps out of spite
for its after-hours cousin so far favored by me.
In the trajectory dream, eventually reign supreme.

If I were better at rapping
you wouldn't need a napkin
wadded up in your ear to keep out the noise
I make with my voice.
I wonder what would happen.
Would everybody holler and cheer when I finished a 
verse?
Would they be sad to disperse?

Wish I'd started earlier. I'd be better by now,
maybe. Might have hit the pinnacle, I'd be settling 
down.
But I'd settle a frown on my face at that conjecture;
to cultivate the vocal, the cadence and the texture,
the lecture I give with it when I rap a rhyme,
to such a top condition (graphed improvement over time)
would indicate my origin at age negative nine.
Even then, barely any better than already I'm.
So! Unhinge the daydream door delve deep!
If I were better at rapping wouldn't people seek a 
peep,
or a full blown rooster report from the Front?
Kind of think that they might. My style's wack, let's 
be blunt.
Let's lay it on the table: Frontalot could enhance
rather drastically before you'd even hazard by stance
that I stand such a height above whence I done.
Promise I'll get better at it if I can when it's spun.