I never let the worst things in life get the best of me.
So take these testes and, ummm…open sesame.
King Sun, “Humm Deez Nuts,” Strictly Ghetto EP, 1994
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(Peace!) Piece of what?
You can’t mean P-E-A-C-E
Cause I’ve seen people on the streets
Shoot the next man and turn around and say ‘peace.’
But that’s leaving people in pieces
It’s not what the meaning of peace is.
Battle physically, conquer mentally.
I’m a true master, you can check my credentials
Cause I choose to use my infinite potential.
It’s for real though, let’s connect, politic…ditto!
We could trade places, get lifted in the staircases,
Word up, peace, incarcerated scarfaces.
Life is real, reality is not a dream.
Those who chose to sleep…I wake em up,
Cause you’re sleepin with your mouth open hummin deez nuts.
Why is the world round?
Why do the suckas bite?
Why do the freaks come out at night?
Why they paint Jesus white?
I sit and wonder why we breakin hip-hop laws,
Doing videos in houses that we know ain’t yours.
I got a lot of things to do, a lot of money to make;
I got no time for you and all the moves you fake.
Life is full of stress and it wrecks my brain,
So I puff the buddha bless and destroy the pain.
I write raps, and when niggas bite, I clap.
Cause their shit sounds better now.
I can’t relate to livin’ less than great.
My motto is: the bigger they are, the more politics involved,
And I revolve at a rate to make your occipital skull plate dissolve.
Techniques delve deep, soooo…don’t sleep, ock, I rock phonics
That got you holdin my dick like your name was Lorena Bobbit.
Alright I might…
Have had a little glare when I stared at ya ho.
But I didn’t know she was like that,
She stared right back!
A born terror, a rebel without a pause…
Ain’t never had a good Christmas, so who is Santa Claus?
I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death.
A lot of rappers be like one time wonders,
Couldn’t say a fly rhyme if there was one right under their noses…
I hate those motherfuckin posers.
If I wasn’t in the rap game,
I’d probably have a key knee-deep in the crack game.
Because the streets is a short stop:
Either you’re slinging crack rock or you got a wicked jump shot.
I drop styles on ears…the public bite ‘em.
Not many went to school, so the dummies wouldn’t write ’em.
They say, “Yo Keith! You’re Kool, you usin’ big words!”
I went to college, I’m even more stupid, herb.
I’m complexicated like a Rubik’s Cube puzzle,
Who said I drink? I don’t drink, I guzzle.
Inhale deep like the words of my breath,
I never sleep, cause sleep is the cousin of death.
Real, rough and rugged, shine like a gold nugget,
Every time I pick up the microphone, I drug it.
She’s got charm, a firearm to match mine,
Goin to the movies packin his and her nine’s.
Wearin Carhartt and leather, motherfuck the weather,
On Valentine’s Day doin stick-ups together.
No one to blame, no shame in her game,
And when we fuck, she makes me scream out her name.
…Shorty’s laugh was cold-blooded as he spoke so foul,
Only twelve tryin to tell me that he liked my style.
Then I rose, wiping the blunt’s ash from my clothes,
Then froze, only to blow the herb smoke through my nose.
Switchin’ speeds like Bruce Lee ridin’ up Fuji in a movie.
Y’all mythological niggas is comical,
The astronomical is comin’ thru like tha flu bombin’ you…
And embalmin’ in your crew, too.
With the musical, mystical, magical, you know how I do.
I love black thighs, you sisters better realize
That real hair and real eyes get real guys.
So before you makeup your face, you better make up your mind…
We were beginners in the hood as 5 Percenters,
But somethin’ must’ve got in us, cause all of us turned to sinners.
Hip-Hop got turned into Hit Pop,
The second a record was number one on the pop charts.
But don’t skip on the heart, it gotta start in the ghetto,
Let no one forget about the hard part.
I left my Phillie at home,
Do you have another?
I wanna get blunted, my brother.
I’m no slave to a rhythm, I whip it,
Then I take its name and change its religion,
Then I chop the foot off the fuckin’ beat
For trying to escape the track, now it’s obsolete.
So why you pushin’ it? Why you lyin’ for? I know where you live,
I know your folks, you was a sucka as a kid.
Your persona’s drama that you acquired in high school in actin’ class,
Your whole aura is plexiglass.
What’s-her-face told me you shot this kid last week in the park;
That’s a lie, you was in church with your moms.
Fake MC’s – they always act hard
But won’t walk the streets without their bodyguards.
Niggas is decaf, I stick ‘em for the C.R.E.A.M.
Rappers can’t sleep, need sleepin’,
B.I.G. keep creepin’,
Casualties need treatin’,
Dumb rappers need teachin’.
I’m like an eclipse on a Friday the 13th,
With black cats and Haley’s Comet,
Blazin’ blunts in my driveway…
Lemonade was a popular drink and it still is;
I get more props and stunts than Bruce Willis.