Rap Scallions

In the early, hopeful days of hip hop, there existed one overlooked, now forgotten, frequently misunderstood group. They were self-referential before that was even a thing, turning simple solipsism into high, or as a vegetable, rather low, art. Was it an organic, totally sustainable compost pile that first hosted them? Maybe. But more likely it was a trash heap tucked in between building and railing along one of the Bronx’s many imposing staircases, often littered with, well, litter. The smell is what people noticed right away. The music came shortly afterwards.

We’re the Rap Scallions and we’re here to stay,

Decomposing before your eyes, don’t you say.

Composing is what we call exercise,

It’s quite aerobic, not that we caramelize. 

We're pretty and grounded, coming up from the soil,

Why not try us with a little pepper and some oil?

We can't shut up, unless we're taking a quick rinse.

But words are one thing we don't mince. 

You might have heard of our cousins before,

Like onion and garlic bringing tears galore. 

Leeks are weak, chives talk jive,

But give us a cipolini to feel so alive.

Don’t confuse us with those onions too green,

We have a separate identity and want to be seen. 

At the end of the day or the end of the root,

We’re safe and secure, just don’t tug on our shoot. 

We’re good citizens, never stuffing any ballots,

The only thing we ignore are sprouting shallots.

So we grab the mic like a rhyming ham,

We’re all alliums, one big bulbous fam.

As you might imagine, this niche never caught on, except in certain corners of Van Cortlandt Park where chives grew wild. There are only so many beats you can make about onions before the engineer's have had enough indigestion for one lifetime. But boy did the Rap Scallions try. Some say they ended up in salads, or on baked potatoes, atop chili bowls or scattered across New York’s tidal waterways, resting finally in a thousand little pieces.