I got laid on James Joyce's grave / I was hoping his genius would rub off on me

James Middleton, a wandering north-countryman, […] declared himself to be a Stuart, sprung from a line of Scottish kings, and endowed with a special power to heal the falling sickness.

[…] mutating into all-star line-ups of emcees spitting hot bars over familiar beats, then to a single crew spitting bars over familiar beats, then eventually to a single crew (or artist) spitting bars over unfamiliar beats.

In a city financed largely by user fees, government coffers have little to spare for subsidies. Voluntary contributions could pick up the slack.