Don’t underestimate me when you date me,
Got my clamp off safety, that’ll make you hate me…
Back in ’86, Rakim hit “The Melody.”
Ever since then, shit jumped off steadily.
Prime Minister Pete Nice, “The Rhapsody,” from Prime Minister Pete Nice & Daddy Rich’s Dust to Dust, 1993
Well I’m a sire, I set the microphone on fire,
Rap styles vary…and carry like Mariah.
Inspectah Deck, “Da Mystery of Chessboxin’,” from Wu-Tang Clan’s Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), 1993
We love it where we from, but we kick it where we at.
Ladybug Mecca, “It’s Good to Be Here,” from Digable Planets’ Reachin’ (A New Refutation of Time and Space), 1993
I’m like a major threat:
Cause I remind you of the things you were made to forget.
– 2Pac, “Holler If Ya Hear Me,” Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z., 1993
They never understood, many people were so slow.
My funky type of rhyme, and my style is pyscho.
– Kool Keith, “Raise It Up,” from Ultramagnetic MC’s The Four Horsemen, 1993
I got bitches in the livin’ room gettin’ it on,
And they ain’t leavin’ till six in the mornin’.
– Snoop Dogg, “Gin and Juice,” Doggystyle, 1993
Used to have a crush on Dawn from En Vogue.
It’s not like honey dip would wanna get with me,
But just in case I own more condoms than TLC.
We live to love, and we love to rock mics.
We speak in ghetto tongue, cause ghetto’s the life.
I never want a jheri curl up under my hat,
The woman in my bed has got to be strictly black,
I never want money if my lyrics are wack,
So I must…rock…the mic.
Who do I blame if I’m not a success?
Do I blame it on my pops that left
When I was feedin on my mama’s breast?
Or do I blame it on society?
With all this black/white stuff…man this shit is real tough.
‘Cause in my physical I can express through song,
Delete stress like Motrin, then extend strong.
I drink Moet with Medusa, give her shotguns in hell
From the spliff that I lift and inhale…it ain’t hard to tell.
Deep like The Shining, sparkle like a diamond,
Sneak a Uzi on the Island in my army jacket lining.
Hit the Earth like a comet…invasion,
Nas is like the Afrocentric Asian: half-man, half-amazing.
It ain’t hard to tell, I excel then prevail,
The mic is contacted, I attract clientele.
My mic check is life or death, breathing a sniper’s breath,
I exhale the yellow smoke of buddha through righteous steps.
As the night seemed darker, cops is on a hunt,
They interrupt your cipher, and crush your blunt.
See, you left your work at home so they pat you down for nothing;
Why in the hell does 10-4 keep fronting?
I’m sick and tired of these fake-ass niggas,
Saying that they’re catching bodies when they never pulled a trigger.
I know your style, I’ve seen it before,
You wearing army suit, now you think you’re hardcore.
Drinking on your 40’s, smoking on your blunts,
Can’t afford a chain so you wear gold fronts…
You fakin’ the funk, kid.
And you’d be getting it up the ass if you ever did a fucking bid.
Times are hard in the ghetto, I gotta steal for a living;
Eating turkey-flavored Now & Laters for Thanksgiving.
We went from African kings to Martin Luther King,
Now they wanna make us all Rodney King.
So they conspire to murder for hire;
Is the world just a big cup of water trying to douse the black fire?
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 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.
God works in different ways and it shows,
And everybody knows: love comes and goes.
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.
Before you act black,
Or try to dress black,
You better be born black,
Or I’ll call your shit wack.
Little brats yellin ‘Trick or Treat’ all through my screen door,
When y’all should be at home sleep,
Instead of at my front porch 15 deep.
The jack o’ lantern came in handy…
I can turn my porch light out like I ain’t got no candy.
But ain’t that somethin?
You buy a Halloween costume and a pumpkin,
Almost gave your children a heart attack.
It’s a tradition, but who the hell started that?
Black boy, black boy, turn that shit down.
You know that America don’t wanna hear the sound
Of the bass drum jungle music, go back to Africa,
Nigga I’ll arrest ya if you’re holding up traffic.
I’ll be damned if I listen, so cops save your breath
And write another ticket if you have any left.
And I’m breaking eardrums while I’m breaking the law,
I’m disturbing all the peace cause Sister Soldier said ‘War!’
So catch me if you can, if you can, here’s a donut,
Cause once you drive away, yo, you know I’m gonna go nuts.
And turn it up to where it was before, nice try!
But you can’t stop the power of the bass in your eye.
I had a church girl, quiet girl…one girl was rich.
The most memorable girl was a Gangsta Bitch.
We went out a lot, sometimes we dressed the same,
Lickin’ shots in the park and had pet names:
I called her ‘Dollars’ cause that’s what she liked to spend;
She called me ‘Diamond’ cause my dick was her best friend.
Shorty, let me tell you about my only vice:
It has to do with lots of lovin’, and it ain’t nuttin’ nice.
Working hard may help you maintain,
To learn to overcome the heartaches and pain.
Unpredictable, liable to flip my lid…
My moms dropped me on my head when I was a kid.
Back then I lost all my marbles, today I lost my job,
So in essence, it’s Armageddon, somebody’s bound to get robbed!
I be tossin’, enforcin’, my style is awesome.
I’m causin’ more Family Feuds than Richard Dawson.
And the survey said: “You’re dead.”
Fatal Flying Guillotine chops off your fuckin’ head!
I got beef with commercial-ass niggas with gold teeth
Lampin’ in a Lexus eatin’ beef.
I’m hooked on gin and tonics like your mama’s Hooked on Phonics.
You gotta understand: I’m a man with needs that needs fulfilling.
And if you ain’t with it, somebody else is willing.
Crews talk shit, but in my face they kiss my ass.
Flip the flyer attire females desire,
Baby you can step to this if you admire
The extraordinary dapper rapper…
Keep tabs on your main squeeze before I tap her.
Believers of Jesus be denouncing Satan on every level,
But every Halloween they’re dressin’ like devils.
Feeling mad hostile, wearing Aéropostale,
Flowing like Christ when I speaks the gospel.
Food for thought, so get a buffet plate.
The lyrics are so fat you might gain weight.
The first lady in my life, but now you’re gone,
I learned through the years to keep carrying on.
Your picture brings me tears and memories,
The way things could be…and they should be, but they’re not.
It’s the principle of it, I get a rush when I bust
Some dope lines oral, that maybe somebody’ll quote.
That’s what I consider real in this field of music,
Instead of puttin’ brain cells to work, they abuse it.
Everybody’s either crime-related or sexual.
For those who pose lyrical, but really ain’t true, I feel:
Their time’s limited, hard rocks too.
Payback’s a bitch, that’s why I never borrow;
And if push comes to shove, I’d do a stickup tomorrow.