You’s a nigga everybody diss, cause you can’t bust this,
You got a bad name like Dick Butkus.
J-Ro, “The Next Level,” from Tha Alkaholiks’ Coast II Coast, 1995
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Like my man Muhammad from Afghanistan:
Grew up in Iran, the nigga runs a neighborhood newsstand.
A wild Middle Eastern…bomb specialist,
Initiated at eleven to be a terrorist.
He set bombs in bottles of champagne
And when niggaz popped the cork, niggaz lost half they brains.
Spam ain’t the move it’s imitation ham.
Ham is pork, and the pork is foul.
Kinda like a pig and that ain’t my style.
Money…really wasn’t part of the rap.
Paid…was havin’ people start to clap.
I’m on some tax-free shit by any means,
Whether bound to hit scheme or some counterfeit C.R.E.A.M.
Some girls barely speak, but always askin’ for a dollar.
Lyrics are weak, like clock radio speakers.
Too many MC’s take that word ‘emcee’ lightly;
They can’t Move a Crowd, not even slightly.
I got styles sick as hell, sicker than sickle cell anemia,
Slaughter your circulatory like leukemia.
I’m your Mr., you my Mrs. with hugs and kisses,
Valentine cards and birthday wishes?
Please…be on another level of planning, of understanding
The bond between man and woman and child.
The highest elevation, cause we above
All that romance crap, just show your love.
I wanna lie to you sometimes…but I can’t.
I wanna tell you that it’s all good…but it ain’t.
Mental energy from within keeps me higher,
Than anything rolled and set on fire
If you for real then you know the deal,
I do or die, and I never ran, never will.
From city to city, coast to coast,
Friday night is the night they like to party the most.
If imitation is the greatest form of flattery,
Punk, don’t flatter me.
I come strong, I make knowledge born,
I flip the script and rock on
From P.M. past to fucking Dawn.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he’s gotta handle up on his own.
Can’t depend on friends to help you in a squeeze,
Please…they got problems of their own.
I call my brother ‘Sun’ cause he shine like one.
Where you been at?
You must’ve cut class.
If it ain’t me, another member of my crew will kick your ass.
Your simple words just don’t move me…
You’re minor, we major.
You all up in the game and don’t deserve to be a player.
I used to be in love with this bitch named E&J,
Don’t fuck with her no more, now I fuck with Tanqueray.
Tanqueray introduced me to her first cousin Gold,
Last name was English and the first name Olde.
Take these words home and think it through;
Or the next rhyme I write might be about you.
I got lots of love for my crew, that is;
No love for them other crews and rival kids.
All them out-of-town niggas know what time it is,
And if they don’t? They need to buy a watch, word up.
When the slugs penetrate, you feel a burning sensation,
Gettin closer to God in a tight situation.
I’m the one-man army Ason
I’ve never been tooken out…I keep MC’s lookin’ out.
I drop science like girls be dropping babies,
Enough to make a nigga go craaaaazy!
Be grateful for blessings,
Don’t ever change, keep your essence.
The power is in the people and politics we address.
My crew’s all about loot.
Fuck looking cute,
I’m strictly Timb boots and Army-certified suits.
Puffin L’s, laid back, enjoying the smell,
In the Bridge, getting down…it ain’t hard to tell.
Peace to every single rapper on this whole earth;
Sellouts got no worth…
I think they better go soul search.
Back in the days was kinda crazy, kid: I started out with nothin’.
Wasn’t livin’ like Thanksgiving; I was turkey without the stuffin’.
Cause when I was low, you was there for me,
And never left me alone because you cared for me.
And I could see you coming home after work late:
You’re in the kitchen trying to fix us a hot plate.
You just working with the scraps you was given,
And Mama made miracles every Thanksgivin’.
Before I lay my head down to rest,
I roll up a nickel sack of cess to relieve the stress.