Dead poets are a team from peterborough, a duo containing teacher Mark Grist and MC mixy, together they are dead poets and both feature on Don't Flop. Mark Grist's Teacher Vs Student Battle is one of the most watched Don't Flop Videos and was being posted all over the internet. I prefer their style of rapping in comparison to alot of other freestylers seen on Don't Flop purely because they don't tend to use bad language and its all about being witty with words rather than offensive.
Below are a couple of Videos of them in action;
'My name’s Mark. I’m a poet and Educational Consultant based in Peterborough. I became Poet Laureate of Peterborough in 2008, Chief Bard of the Fens in 2009 and Edinburgh Fringe Slam Champion in 2010. I’ve recently been on two national tours, whilst also completing an MA in Creative Writing at Goldsmith’s University in London.
My double act, Dead Poets, appeared on BBC 6 Music with Steve Merchant, was shortlisted for the Wooda Arts Award, received six different 4 star reviews at Edinburgh and went on to tour nationally with Phrased and Confused.'
A couple of Marks Poems;
One night, believing myself big enough,
I crept out of bed to neck my Father’s mouthwash.
The mixture ripped my throat,
Leapt from mouth and nose
As bottle dropped,
Upended across the lino. I gasped
Then moved; Fearing discovery, I stuffed toothpaste,
Talcum powder, Head and Shoulders, Calpol,
Pills, Savlon and bleach into the bottle,
Then shook it till it settled almost exactly as before.
Later that night, as I lay awake in my bed,
I knew that when my Father drank it
He'd drop down dead.
And knowing the smack I would get for owning up,
Still I made no sound; just welled in the dark
At how diluted I was
when held up against him.
You kept us in check, alright. Hugged us
With a thuggery unrivalled on our street.
A bellow from the doorstep; you framing the fortress,
Knuckling at dusters; rubbing spit upon faces;
Tormenting the dishes. You were clatter,
The business, and if one of us resisted,
Your words had the power to
Lift the spines from our backs.
One afternoon, while you slept, I moved closer,
Ran my fingers along the red scar in your side;
The one that I’d made. Deep as the Earth’s crust,
Still nowhere near deep enough to be the end of you.