A recent article on the Day’s obituary page contained a glaring affront to musical history.

Rappers everywhere need to pay attention. They would do well to recognize Bob Dylan as their Creator, and the sooner they follow his literary teachings, the better.

The article was reprinted from the Washington Post and declared lyricist Jalal Mansur Nuridden, who passed away June 4, as the “Grandfather of Rap.” That’s hogwash. Bob Dylan is, indeed, the Grandfather of Rap, having composed the first real rap song, Subterranean Homesick Blues (SHB) in 1965.

Nuridden performed with The Last Poets, and his influential rap record, Hustler’s Convention, wasn’t released until 1973.

Granted, a black militant songwriter is more romantic to the cause than a scrawny white folksinger from Hibbing, Minnesota, with a voice only a mother could love, but even Rolling Stone magazine recognized Dylan as Hip-Hop’s grandfather in 2010, referring to SHB.

According to National Public Radio, rap didn’t even reach commercial viability until 1979, fourteen years after SHB was released.

Unwisely ignoring its true creator, rap was launched with no quality control, the inmates running the asylum. The result was, and is, rap lyrics that are both painful and embarrassing to Dylan’s legacy.

A few smart rappers recognize Dylan’s influence and have invited him to perform on their records, including Kurtis Blow, the Beastie Boys and Kid Cudi.

But too many rappers still don’t get it, and take the easy way out, simply spewing senseless verbal debris for huge paychecks.

For example, consider a verse from Dylan’s seminal SHB:

“Get sick, get well/Hang around a ink well/Ring bell, hard to tell/If anything is goin’ to sell/Try hard, get barred/Get back, write braille/Get jailed, jump bail/Join the army, if you fail.”

Now, a slice of Chance the Rapper:

“No assignments, book of rhyming and I’m drawing doodles/I should rhyme rhyme with Ramen Noodles/Ramadan, I’m the don of the diamond jewels/Fond of finding a way to kindly tell these toddlers toodles.”

This may make no sense to people of sound mind, yet Mr. Chance is making oodles “rhyme rhyming with Ramen noodles” thanks to Dylan. Celebritynetworth.com claims Chance is worth $9 million today.

Rapper Cam’ron offers this: “Me who?/Please boo/Landin’ in that G2/same color as beef stew/pure blue/Hebrew.” Complete rubbish, an insult to Dylan’s legacy. Pure blue beef stew? Cam’ron’s infantile babbling has amassed him $8 million.

Rap’s intellectual failure surely pains Dylan, and if anyone asked him to explain it, he might respond:

“Darkness at the break of noon/Shadows even the silver spoon/The handmade blade, the child’s balloon/Eclipses both the sun and moon/To understand you know too soon/There is no sense in trying.” (“It’s Alright Ma, I’m Only Bleeding” 1965).

According to Billboard, the rap industry was worth $25 billion in 2015, and may represent Dylan’s most extraordinary contribution to American music. He can’t be held liable for its intellectual and lyrical wasteland.

Nuruddin was called “a socially conscious trailblazer whose music demonstrated a new means of black cultural expression,” yet there’s something culturally delicious in the realization that a scrawny white folksinger from Hibbing, who worshipped Woody Guthrie, actually created that “new means of black cultural expression.”

As Soviet-born comic Yakov Smirnoff might say of such a thing: “America, what a country!”

John Steward lives in Waterford and can be reached at tossinglines@gmail.com or visit www.johnsteward.online.