I ain’t Mary, so ain’t a damn thing Poppin’.
Xzibit, “Eyes May Shine,” At the Speed of Life, 1996
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I ain’t Mary, so ain’t a damn thing Poppin’.
My hustle’s the play,
That means the hood is a stage.
Been rehearsing for days…
Don’t ask for a cig’ – I’m so self-centered, I won’t even share this cancer.
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.
The world is kinda cold and the rhythm is my blanket.
I’m like Demerol…
No disrespect to the Jacksons, but I kill mics.
You need a bad operation.
Gimme the scissors, hammer, flame.
Pass me the scalpel, I’ll make an incision,
I’ll cut off the part of your brain that does the bitching…
Classical slap-stick rappers need Chapstick.
I got a voodoo doll every time I pen a verse:
Not only do they say they feel it, but they say it hurts.
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…
Bullets ain’t racial, kid…they only hate you.
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
10 buckets…
You can plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather, Ms. Jackson.
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.
Imagine peace on this earth when there’s no grief,
Imagine grief on this earth when there’s no peace.
Think, just blink and I made…a million rhymes.
Just imagine if you blinked…a million times.
Damn, I’d be paid…I got it made.
We was sneakin’ in and it was general admission,
Now we ownin’ the arena and decidin’ who allowed in it.
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.
Don’t underestimate me when you date me,
Got my clamp off safety, that’ll make you hate me…
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.
I use a pick in my hair without force.
You use a lawn mower–you got peat moss.
Yo, you 14-carat gold slum computer wizard,
Tappin’ inside my rap vein causes blizzards!
Now who done passed you a diaper and got you thinkin’ you the shit?
I seen her on the ave, spotted her more than once.
Ass so fat that you could see it from the front…
I smoked with a lot of college students…
Most of em wasn’t graduatin, and they knew it.
Run from the police, picture that,
Nigga I’m too fat…
I fuck around and catch a asthma attack.
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?
I won’t hesitate to detonate, I’m short fused.
You never question when you get the blessings,
So don’t get vexed when your life is stressed.
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…
You ask me, “Did I like Arsenio?”
About as much as the Bicentennial.
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.
I’d rather be broke and have a whole lot of respect.
It’s the principle of it.
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…
Squeeze the juice out,
Of all the suckers with power.
And pour some back out,
So as to water the flowers.
This world is ours.
Tell the truth:
James Brown was old,
Til Eric B. and Rakim came out with ‘I Got Soul.’
Be grateful for blessings,
Don’t ever change, keep your essence.
The power is in the people and politics we address.
My rhymes make niggas rebuild like water damage…