A simple right or left
Can mean life or death.
Epic fail, or nice success,
Days of pleasure…nights of stress.
Ka, “Decisions,” Grief Pedigree, 2012. More from Brownsville’s Ka >
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A friend with weed is a friend indeed,
Word to the stem, word to the seed.
Now Joe wanna be like Bob,
Bob got it goin’ on with no job.
And everything Rob got he got from Robin,
And everything she got, she got ho-hoppin’.
My girl Jilly wanna be like Jackie,
Fat rope chains and I think that’s wick-wacky.
Tom and Dick wanna be like Harry,
Little do they know he’s bitin’ on Barry…
There’s four developing stages in the art of hip-hop,
And most of them developed from the snap, crackle and pop.
The first was the usage of an actual band,
The second was a drum machine made by a man,
The third was the human beatbox and percussion,
The fourth in line was samplin’ and the book of rhyme bustin’.
I mastered The Art of War before a nigga read Sun Tzu,
Third degree black-belt, master of Gun-Fu.
Pop pills, smoke weed, even get drunk too;
And you do what you can, and I do what I want to.
Been tested, ain’t fail: I’m tried and true.
When it’s all falling apart, my pride’s the glue.
I felt at times worthless…
Pulled shifts with shifty crime merchants,
Stained hearts, brainwashed by mind serpents.
The fact I’m still here, it’s clear it’s divine purpose.
Attention! Follow directions real close:
Keep out of reach of children, beware of overdose.
Too many milligram, but what made a iller jam?
My rhyme is the rhythm of thoughts that kill a man.
Ideas for the ear to fear, might split ‘em;
He’ll never forget ’em…he’ll rest in peace wit ’em.
At least when he left he’ll know what hit ’em:
The last breath of the words of death was ‘The Rhythm.’
I ain’t the captain of the yacht, but I’m on the boat;
I ain’t acting what I’m not, knowing that I don’t.
You niggaz acting like you will, but I know you won’t.
Man, I read between the lines of the eyes of your brows,
Your handshake ain’t matchin your smile…
I keep the ugly rhymes in the cellar of my cranium,
Where no one can see them or hear cries for freedom.
Chopped up raw thoughts the only thing I feed ‘em,
Release the beats from the cellar when I need ‘em.
I do my thing like B.B. King, my microphone is named Lucille.
They been calling me a criminal for so damn long,
Start to believe they right…and they gon’ make me do something wrong.
You see me in the hood, you think I’m trynna rob you.
I’m just talking to you when you think I’m trynna con you?
No matter what, they gon’ call me a crook.
So you think I give a fuck if I look like a motherfuckin’ criminal?
I guess it’s true what they say:
When you’re too far gone, ain’t no turning back.
And coming from the Compton, mack, that’s a fuckin’ fact.
Want to know my occupation, home location, and means of transportation?
The correct combination unlocked your placenta…
I got a cellular phone with a rubber antenna,
And a 3-story house, drive a 4-door Ac.
Favorite song of all time? Mobb Deep’s ‘Hit It From the Back’
God works in different ways and it shows,
And everybody knows: love comes and goes.
Now it’s my turn, and I am concerned
About idiots posing as kings.
What are we here to rule?
I thought we were supposed to sing.
And if we oughta sing, then let us begin to teach.
Many of you are educated…open your mouth and speak!
I don’t know why y’all so highly regarded;
You rhyme like you’re borderline mildly retarded.
Stop walking through life as if you were blind,
You should reach for your goal cause I’m reaching for mine.
More rhymes are funny now, happy and silly now.
Happy-go-lucky on the mic, and meanwhile,
You standin’ still, lookin out for a good rhyme,
Makin the wack junk, wastin’ my good time.
I hope you get a paper cut on your tongue
From a razor in a paper cup.
I hope every soda you drink’s already shaken up.
I hope your dreams dry like raisins in the baking sun.
I hope your titties’ all saggy in your early 20s.
I hope there’s always snow in your driveway.
I hope you never get off Fridays…
And you work at a Friday’s that’s always busy on Fridays.
I’m just a bastard with a bad habit,
Bad back, in a black Volkswagen Rabbit
…Shit, I gotta have it.
Black magic woman put a spell on me;
Fuck around and win a spelling bee.
I could walk under ladders, still win the lotto.
Ten minutes flat: built a boat in a bottle.
The scene of a crime every night at the show,
The fiend of a rhyme on the mic that you know.
It’s only one capable; breaks, the unbreakable.
Melodies, unmakable; pattern, unescapable.
This ain’t the world we thought it was when we as in pre-school.
Sometimes it’s hard to be cool, sometimes I feel like I’m see-through.
Sometimes I really wish…I wish that I could be you.
You a white boy in a fuckin’ droptop,
Bumpin’ 2Pac, actin’ like you hard? Stop.
Hip-hop music make the world go round,
But buying a record don’t put you down.
You listen to thugs, it don’t make you one;
Never met a Blood or Crip, but you act like one?
You see y’all got it all wrong like women in tuxedos,
And comin’ up shorter than five Danny DeVitos.
I’m on a cool ranch…get laid more than Fritos,
With five strippers, four wives and three amigos.
I go scuba divin’ in Bays at Montego,
I find gold links and snatch ‘em like I’m Deebo.
But I’m the light-skindeded version of Mandingo,
I’ve seen more Beatles and Jagged Edges than Ringo,
I used to run numbers in line they called me ‘Bingo.’
When I drink a brew for you, I pour some on the block, son.
You might be gone, but you damn sure ain’t forgotten.
Make peace not war, make babies some more, Keep a smile when you travel from shore to shore.
I’m a true master, you can check my credentials
Cause I choose to use my infinite potential.
I’ll never understand why a wack rapper tries and
Convinces himself that his image is so fly and
That’s the type of crap you know I’m not buying…
Chumps lack the beats and their rhymes don’t apply.
30 rack on a neck of a artist (Say what?)
About another 20K on his arm (Say what?)
This nigga flashin’ 50 grand,
Walk around here, lookin like food for the wolves.
Listen! Illuminati rap: we don’t ride to that,
Everybody poppin’ molly…look at how they act.
(Y’all sweatin’) The whole place emotional,
Wake up to find out some dude’s Frank Ocean’ed you.
It’s like every step bring me close to destiny,
And every breath I get closer to the death of me.
I’m just tryna carry out my own legacy,
But the place I call home ain’t lettin’ me.
Most people don’t make love no more,
They just fuck and they fight.
What happened to the stay-togethers?
I’m with you, and that means forever.
Fear is weakness, learn from what experience teaches.
Beware of leeches, the vampires, my secrets…
Never follow, cause most niggas is straight up cowards.
Take care of my body’s the temple, my mind is the power.
…That’s when you start to stare at who’s in the mirror,
And see yourself as a kid again, and you get embarrassed.
And I got nothin’ to do but make you look stupid as parents,
You fuckin’ do-gooders; too bad you couldn’t do good at marriage!