Now that Bin Laden dead, can we get our civil liberties back?
That George Bush stole with the Patriot Act?
You only get honest expression when I spit in your ear;
That means even when I’m dissing you I’m being sincere.
If wonder if I blasted a little Elvis Presley.
Would they pull me over and attempt to arrest me?
I doubt, doubt it, they’ll probably start dancin,
Jumpin on my dick and pissin in they pants and
Wiggle and then jiggle and grab on they pelvis
But you know my name, so you never hear no Elvis.
I’m like Demerol…
No disrespect to the Jacksons, but I kill mics.
But some find happiness while others find sorrow,
And what’s here today, may be gone tomorrow.
Peep what I wrote;
You bit so hard, I thought your shit was a quote.
There’s a whole lot of questions that really need answers
Like: Who the fuck told you that your rhyme style was hot?
You know when Biggie died? Who bust that shot?
Why is Sammy Bull still living, and where the fuck is Pac?
I’m not a ‘Businessman,’ I’m a Business… man! Let me handle my business, damn!
‘Yo I’m from Africa’
Boy you’re just a faker.
Name one city: ‘Uhh, Jamaica!’
Wrong! And I think that’s a shame,
An African look with an American name…
Too bad your inner sheep never forgets to follow…
If you are not performing fellatio for radio rotation,
What’s the ratio for radio play at your station?
If you’re not paying to play, the record is dead.
Puts a whole new spin on ‘Radio-head’
I don’t wanna dance, baby girl, it’s like my legs is on strike.
I’d rather be dead than watch wack shit.
Color me gone, fill in the dirt, tell ‘em i kicked
Rhyme to kill, rhyme to murder, rhyme to stomp,
Rhyme to ill, rhyme to romp,
Rhyme to smack, rhyme to shock, rhyme to roll,
Rhyme to destroy anything, toy boy.
On the microphone:
I’m Poppa Large, big shot on the East Coast.
Let’s pretend we’re both guns, and make this shit erratic:
I’ll be the revolver, you can play the automatic.
Automatic flip scripts, revolver show loyalty.
Each gun is die-able, but only one’s reliable.
You shoot fast, but in the end you jam,
Then I click back, and turn your brains into spam.
Day in and day out we do the same thing,
Tryina find the joy in our repetition.
Always complainin’ about the routine and the mundane.
But let me stop to remind y’all bout one thing:
Come hell or high water you can count on the sun
Always shinin’ in its untamed glory.
Ya see I’m Irish, but I’m not a leprechaun.
You wanna fight, then step up and we’ll get it on!
Till the roof comes off, till the lights go out,
Till my legs give out, can’t shut my mouth,
Till the smoke clears out – am I high? Perhaps.
Imma rip this shit, till my bones collapse.
Now who done passed you a diaper and got you thinkin’ you the shit?
So let me explain the game,
Break it down a couple of levels like Tetris:
These young uns kill they own blood for a necklace,
Leave ya slumped over the wheel of ya Lexus,
Smoke kush, wake up and eat breakfast…
…what the fuck you expect?
The 808 kick drum makes the girlies get dumb,
We’re rollin’ Rainier, and the jealous wanna get some.
Every time we do the sucka MC’s wanna battle,
I’m the man they love to hate, the J.R. Ewing of Seattle…
Mindless violence, well let me try to paint it.
Here’s the 5 steps in hopes to explain it:
1, It’s me and my Nation against the World
2, Then me and my Clan against the Nation
3, Then me and my Fam against the Clan
4, Then me and my Brother, we no hesitation
Go against the Fam until they cave in
5, Now who’s left in this deadly equation?
That’s right, it’s me against my Brother
Then we point a Kalashnikov
And kill one another.
Some is sniffin’, and some is buffin’.
Some is riffin’, some ain’t sayin nothin’,
But my pockets I am stuffin’.
Huffin’ puffin’, blow the house down,
Nice and Smooth is in your town…
Be grateful for blessings,
Don’t ever change, keep your essence.
The power is in the people and politics we address.
Where I come from, young ones pump chumps for lump sums,
Bustin guns, trust none, become son.
Truth spells broke loose shells that propel,
Where I’m dwellin, niggas bail…tellin what you sellin.”
Inspectah Deck, “Elevation,” Uncontrolled Substance, 1999
La-Di-Da-Di, we likes to party
We don’t cause trouble, we don’t bother nobody.
We’re just some men that’s on the mic,
And when we rock up on the mic
We rock the mic, right!