Hardly a Gangsta Rap

The following dates back to my days in the classroom.  It was for a 'rap battle' between teachers and was very  well-received.
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Yo, yo, Mister Bo!
I've had it up to here with this silly rap battle
You've got us in here, prattlin' like we're cattle
Now I don't mean to tattle, but you're foggier than Seattle

And while we're on cattle, we're talkin' 'bout a bovine
But I don't mean your wife, cuz' man she's lookin' fine
I've written fifty lines, I'm done with chapter nine, the plot lines intertwine,
What's the next thing you'll assign?

You can't stop these poetic waxes,
I'll school you on the Praxis
The IRS is sendin' faxes, about your last years' taxes.

Now, you're starin' at the class with your coke-bottle lenses,
But we know our verb tenses, our whats, whys, and whences.
Hence, we're not so dense from the knowledge you dispense.
Now listen up, Bo, and hear my two cents, don't take offense,
But on a teacher's salary, you'll never drive a Benz.

Now I've got to rhyme with salary, my rhyming burns up calories.
Teach us Thomas Mallory, or O'Connor, Flannery.
You're shorter than a story, your words need weight like Giles Corey.
Ask my man Coleridge, whose mariner was hoary, his rime colder than my rhymes, I'm out to win glory. Teach us something gory, like a tale from Polidori.

Now, yo, yo, Mister Bo, I'll tell you what I know 'bout Edgar A. Poe, or that poet Homer, d'oh!
I let my rhymes flow, rap on Odysseus and his bow, or a plot's plateau.
You want a quid pro quo, but your rhymes are slow, you're crazier than van Gogh. Don't talk, be like Marcel Marceau, my cup doth overflow.

So let me be clear, the end is drawing near. This is why I'm here, tell me 'bout Shakespeare, Edward Lear, and Chaucer's cavalier.

I'm done for the day, finished Miller's play, made impressions like Monet.
So tell me, Mister B, do I get my A?