Fuck a medic, we gon’ call yo ass a taxi cab,
Bleedin’ so hard you need a life-size maxi pad.
Ludacris, “We Got,” Chicken-N-Beer, 2003
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Fuck a medic, we gon’ call yo ass a taxi cab,
Bleedin’ so hard you need a life-size maxi pad.
I’m Ready to Die without a Reasonable Doubt
Smoke Chronic and hit it Doggystyle before I go out.
Until they sign my Death Certificate, All Eyez on Me
I’m still at it, Illmatic, and that’s The Documentary.
You know the wisdom is reflected in the knowledge when it’s manifested;
If not fed in due time, the mind is anorexic.
Nowadays rap artists coming half-hearted,
Commercial like pop, or underground like black markets.
Where were you the day hip-hop died?
Is it too early to mourn? Is it too late to ride?
So you think that hip-hop had its start out in Queensbridge?
If you popped that junk up in the Bronx, you might not live!
You’re insecure and need a blanket like Linus.
A rap villain: chillin’ and I don’t give a fuck about a killin’ cause I’m still in effect when you’re illin’.
Me and Frosted went to get a drink.
But she ordered somethin’ bugged, and I ain’t know what to think.
She ordered potassium, calcium,
Carbohydrate, scotch with sodium.
She took me to her crib, threw me on the couch…
I woke up the next morning with a spoon in my mouth.
So lovers of life, don’t keep your hopes up high.
Why? Cause it’s just a matter of time before it’s your turn to die.
But until then, when you stop breathin’,
It’s time to stand up and fight for what you believe in!
I remember when I fell from my first bike:
There were no ‘Are you okays?’ and rarely ‘Are you alrights?’
Just dirt in my pockets, handful of gravel…
That’s when I realized that getting up is only half the battle.
Slim Shady: Hotter then a set of twin babies
In a Mercedes Benz, with the windows up
When the temp goes up to the mid 80’s.
Fake MC’s – they always act hard
But won’t walk the streets without their bodyguards.
I’m not a sucka, so I don’t need a bodyguard.
The principles of true hip-hop have been forsaken,
It’s all contractual and about money makin’.
Back in the days when I was a teenager,
Before I had status, and before I had a pager,
You could find The Abstract, listening to hip-hop,
My pops used to say it reminded him of be-bop.
I said, ‘Well daddy don’t you know that things go in cycles.
The way that Bobby Brown is just ampin’ like Michael.
It’s all expected, things are for the lookin’,
If you got the money, Quest is for the bookin’.
Rebel, renegade, must stay paid.
L is the rebel type, I’m rough as a metal pipe,
Fuck a Benz, cause I can pull skins on a pedal bike.
Everybody’s got opinions on the way you’re livin’,
But see, they can’t fill your shoes.
Niggas is decaf, I stick ‘em for the C.R.E.A.M.
Beef is best served like steak:
Well done, get a gun in ya face.
Rappers can’t sleep, need sleepin’,
B.I.G. keep creepin’,
Bullets heat-seekin’,
Casualties need treatin’,
Dumb rappers need teachin’.
The line between playing to win and sin is thin,
But I walk it with grace and I talk it with taste.
I am that raw, simply put, and I rest my case.
Deja vu, tell you what I’m gonna do,
When they reminisce over you, my God.
Stop raising your voice at me,
Stop messing around with my sanity,
Got me in a bubble, I can barely breathe…
Spam ain’t the move it’s imitation ham.
Ham is pork, and the pork is foul.
Kinda like a pig and that ain’t my style.
God works in different ways and it shows…
And everybody knows, love comes and goes.
I got a funny feeling like something was real wrong…
Looked at her shoes and her feets was real long!
Then it hit me, Oh please God no,
Don’t let this ho turn out to be a John Doe…
He pulled a fast one on me, yo!
This is jazz, this is funk, this is soul, this is gospel
This is sanctified sick, this is player Pentecostal.
This is church front pew, Amen, pulpit,
What my people need and the opposite of bullshit.
There oughta be laws against you yappin’ your jaws.
When you fall for a girl named Hope
How you gonna have any when she decides to go?
I swear these niggas from the future…
Where they got camouflage chains and invisible gats
Cause I don’t see none of the shit I hear in their raps.
We brag on havin’ bread, but none of us are bakers.
We all talk havin’ greens, but none of us on acres.
If none of us on acres, and none of us grow wheat,
Then who will feed our people when our people need to eat?
So it seems our people starve from lack of understandin’
Cause all we seem to give them is some ballin’ and some dancin’,
And some talkin’ about our car and imaginary mansions.
We should be indicted for bullshit we inciting,
Havin’ children deaf and pretendin’ it’s exciting.
We are advertisements for agony and pain.
We exploit the youth. We tell them to join a gang.
We tell them dope stories, introduced them to the game.
I own the night…the heat’s my receipt.
Using numerology to count the people I sent to heaven,
Produces more digits than 22 divided by 7.
Niggas running around fantasizing like they’re Peter Pan…
Your life’s a scam and I’mma fuck it up like Neverland.
Your mom’s in our business…she’s in our business…
Can’t you see, girl, that your mom’s trying to end this?
I gave birth to most of them MC’s…
So when it comes around to the month of May,
Send me your royalty check for Mother’s Day.
What’s the remedy? Suckaz better get their own identity,
And to the enemy, you better roll like there’s ten of me.
I make chicks consider themselves widows whose husbands ain’t even died yet.
Laugh now, cry later: this is the karma.
Hip-hop never died, it’s just sick of the drama.
Lookin’ out at the world through my window pane,
Every day has many colors ‘cause the glass is stained.
Everything has changed but remains the same,
So once again the mirror raised.
And I see myself as clear as day,
And I am goin’ to the limits of my ultimate destiny,
Feeling as though somebody somewhere is testin’ me.
He who sees the end from the beginning of time
Looking forward through all the ages:
Is, was, and always shall be.
Let me spell my name out for you, it’s Ricky:
R: Ravishing, I: Impress,
C: Courageous or Careless,
K: for the Kangols which I’ve got,
That I wear everyday and Y: Why not?
This is doomsday for MCs with hollow skills,
Who talk about clothing articles and dollar bills,
And fake ass rides that they don’t even drive.
Hip-hop is war and only strong MCs will survive.
You could either ignore this advice, or take it from me:
Be too nice, and people take you for a dummy.
I’m a menace to society,
But girls in biker shorts are so fly to me.
After the date, I’mma want to do the wild thing…
You’re talkin’ lobster? I’m thinkin’ Burger King.
Put this in your CD-ROM:
www dot Canibus dot com.
You can find me on the Internet, talkin’ to chicks
That was sweatin’ me off the ‘Music Makes Me High’ remix.
I be talkin’ mad trash, tryin to get ’em to laugh.
See, if I click and drag long enough I’ll get the ass…
Money…really wasn’t part of the rap.
Paid…was havin’ people start to clap.
I wake you up and as I stare in your face, you seem stunned.
Remember me? The one you got your idea from?
Y’all niggas ain’t ILL…you’re ILLogical.