I don’t like a girl that be hanging with a slut crew,
I can’t sport a female who’s crossed-eyed with a buck tooth.
I need a female I can sport when I’m outdoors.
I’m not choosy…I got a rep to look out for.
L is the rebel type, I’m rough as a metal pipe,
Fuck a Benz, cause I can pull skins on a pedal bike.
Deja vu, tell you what I’m gonna do,
When they reminisce over you, my God.
There oughta be laws against you yappin’ your jaws.
And how ‘bout the non-blunt rollin’ females
That always fucks it up ’cause they don’t wanna break their Lee nails?
She’s not impressed by your fancy car.
She got a body so she’s snotty and she don’t care who you are.
So don’t get mad and dis her reputation
Callin’ her a floozy, any conversation.
Mad grammar, backstabber, girls they wanna be her.
But like Stevie Wonder, none of y’all can see her!
I seen her in the subway, on my way to Brooklyn.
“Hello, good lookin, is this seat tooken?”
On the A Train, pickin at her brain,
I couldn’t get her number, I couldn’t get her name.
I said, “I still like your style and fashion,
But I hate your hot sadiddy attitude wit a passion.
Is it because brothers like to hawk a lot?
Is it because your sign don’t talk a lot?”
She turned away, no play, I said, “OK,
You don’t really look good, I hope you have a bad day.”
Yo, you don’t think you’re going under?
I got a bullet with your name, your address, and your phone number.
I once caught a bid, I never hit skid,
Never date a girl if the girl got a kid.
Nahhh…papa’s got a brand new bag
And I never hit skinz once they sag.
I call you once…you never dialed back.
Twice…you never dialed back.
Saturday morning, live, I’m on Soul Train, talkin’ to Don Cornelius.
Saturday night, my phone rings…
Saturday night, I won’t answer.
Saturday night, my phone rings again…
Saturday night, I don’t answer.
According to Guru (RIP): “Streetwise poetry and turntable wizardry.”- from “Flip the Script,” off of Gang Starr’s Daily Operation, 1992
You know the evil that men do, hell is where the men go.
We snatched him by his hands and feet and threw him out the window:
“Up, up, and away cause I don’t play, clown,
Buck, buck, buck, take that with you on the way down.”
I’m hoping you got springs and wings on your shoes,
But you lose, because I got the Ill Street Blues.
Don’t get offended, there’s no need for insecurity,
Age is but a number, it’s all about maturity.
You gotta school these young macks comin’ up today…
I mean to be ‘frank’, they just hot dogs,
The girls are relish, and they need to catchup on they pimpin’.
I like my pockets fat, not flat.
You want ass? The cash is first.
You got dead presidents, baby, I got a hearse in my purse.
When I went to school I carried lunch in a bag
With an apple for my teacher ‘cause I knew I’d get a kiss.
Always got mad when the class was dismissed.
My experience oughta learn ya:
That if a nigga ain’t trying to smoke ya, a bitch trying to burn ya.
He doesn’t even suit ya, and he’s surely not your size,
I’m surprised that you slept on a heart that’s worldwide.
So much anger built inside…
So don’t stop to say ‘Hi,’ muthafucka just die.
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.
Ya see I’m Irish, but I’m not a leprechaun.
You wanna fight, then step up and we’ll get it on!
Rap is an art, you can’t own no loops.
It’s how you hook ‘em up and the rhyme style, troop.
So don’t even think you could say someone bit
Off your weak beat, come on, you need to quit.
Guru, “Take it Personal,” from Gang Starr’s Daily Operation, 1992
Life’s a bitch, who are we to judge each other?
I know I got faults, I ain’t the only muthafucka.
– Guru, “No Shame in my Game,” from Gang Starr’s Daily Operation, 1992
I’m so def, I need a hearing aid with an equalizer.
You know, I used to be a player…flygirl-layer and a heartbreaker,
Lovemaker, backbreaker, but then I made a mistake.
Yes, I fell in love with this ill chick,
Sweatin’ me for money, my name and the dilsnick.
My homeboys told me drop her cause it would be to my benefit;
She used to say I’d better quit hanging with those derelicts.
Brothers ain’t shit,
So don’t honk your horn, keep rolling.
No, I don’t wanna ride cause the shit might be stolen.
Anyway, I know your number:
You got a ‘Gas, Grass or Ass’ sticker on your bumper.
Nah baby, I’m not gonna be able to do it,
I tried to take you serious before, and you blew it.
You figured you was slick, dissin me for the next man,
But when you heard he had a wife, it ruined your plans.
Now you wanna come back and act like it’s all that?
But I ain’t tryin to hear it, cause you sound real wack.
You got it over the first time, but that was the last time;
I’ll never make the same mistake again in a lifetime.
I never had real friends ‘til now…
I never had to steal ends cause that’s foul.
I walk the streets with the baseball bat feelin’ secure,
But I try not to incite fights–that’s immature.
Now there she goes again, the dopest Ethiopian,
And now the world around me be gets movin in slow motion
Whenever she happens to walk by, why does the apple of my eye
Overlook and disregard my feelings no matter how much I try?
A friend with weed is a friend indeed,
Word to the stem, word to the seed.
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.
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.
Chop suey don’t do me no good,
I gotta have corn beef and cabbage if I wanna manage.
I never eat pig, but I’ll fuck up a potato,
I’m not a dago, but pasta’s all that.
Girls, don’t run that shit that beauty’s only skin deep,
Cause I don’t want no girl with a Brillo face,
Or the type that’ll leave Jheri Curl juice on my pillow case.
Tried to put shame in my game to make a name,
I’mma put it on a bullet…put it in your brain.
Brooklyn: the home of the black and the beautiful.
For a rough rap sound, ain’t a place more suitable.
The place I’m from, Santa don’t leave gifts.
In my house, Santa only shoplifts.
Holidays in the hood ain’t no motherfuckin joke,
When people all around you is starving and broke.
Cause if you black and poor, it’s hell;
You only hear gunshots, you never hear bells.
So if you got a way out, then go
Cause it ain’t no fun with Christmas in the ghetto.
I got a girl and she treat me fine,
But the homies all think that I’m losin’ my mind.
I’m trippin’ and I know it cause I’m all nerved up,
Cause everytime I go to sleep, I see this big ol’ butt.
See, I ain’t never gave no chick 4 stars,
But she treat me so good that she be drivin my car.
And every day it get better, I can’t lie,
Went to the house and she made me some hot potato pie.
All my friends be sayin, “She ain’t nothin but a scrub!”
But she make me feel high like I’m hooked on drugs.
So I give her what she need, and what’s done is done,
But I’m a special kind of fool but ayo, it don’t bother me none.
I can’t help myself, I know that I’m trippin’,
But she got it goin’ on like Kentucky Fried Chicken.
You and your friends…always together,
No time for the B-I-G, so I’m O-U-T.
The sex was great, but the headaches I can’t take.
I think I made a very big mistake.
I go to Queens for queens to get the crew from Brooklyn,
Make money in Manhattan and never been tooken.
Go Uptown and the Bronx to boogie down,
Get strong on the Island, recoup, and lay around.
You little cream puff Mac Daddy wannabe,
Keep dreaming cause a Mac you will never be.
So all y’all with the Dr. Seuss riddles,
You can get the finger…the middle
I’m givin’ more flat lines to niggas than loose-leaf.
You got game like me? I doubt it.
They say pimping ain’t easy…what’s so hard about it?