Classical slap-stick rappers need Chapstick.
MF Doom, “Rhymes Like Dimes,” Operation: Doomsday!, 1999
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Y’all niggaz ain’t rapping the same,
Fuck the flow, y’all jacking our slang,
I seen the same shit happen to Kane,
Three cuts in your eyebrow trying to wild out.
The game is ours, will never foul out,
Y’all just better hope we gracefully bow out.
Now who in the world do you want to fight?
It’s against the system, we should unite.
Homophobics ain’t alright;
If you learn to love, then you might love life.
Truth brings light, light refracts off the mirror,
Visions of yourself and error could never be clearer.
The truth is that you ugly…
Not on the outside, but in the inside;
On the outside, you frontin’ you lovely.
If I don’t got two balls and a middle finger to throw up,
I’m takin off both shoes and stickin each middle toe up.
Funny how things change when you got a liquor in ya:
You’re quicker with the tongue, givin’ me rhythm now.
Block the music and the people out to admire the love,
The nerve of us…impervious to the entire club.
And like marijuana shotguns, let’s blow this joint,
It’s pointless to stay here, so let me anoint.
Never we sleep, a thug doesn’t rest,
Cause a wise man said: it was a cousin of death.
The last batter to hit, blast shattered your hip,
Smash any splitter or fastball—that’ll be it.
Cancun…catch me in the room, eatin’ grouper.
Time is real, we can’t rewind it…
Out of everybody I met, who told the truth?
I scored 1.1 on my SAT,
And still push a whip with a right and left AC.
Yo, it’s 1 universal law but 2 sides to every story,
3 strikes and you be in for life, mandatory.
4 MC’s murdered in the last 4 years,
I ain’t tryin to be the 5th one, the Millennium is here.
Yo, it’s 6 million ways to die, from the 7 deadly thrills,
8-year olds gettin’ found with 9 mill’s.
It’s 10 P.M., where your seeds at? What’s the deal?
The route to all evil…daily I chase it.
Blow it on weed and drink, and hustle to replace it.
Slim Shady: Hotter then a set of twin babies
In a Mercedes Benz, with the windows up
When the temp goes up to the mid 80’s.
Stop raising your voice at me,
Stop messing around with my sanity,
Got me in a bubble, I can barely breathe…
Y’all niggas ain’t ILL…you’re ILLogical.
Keep bustin about where you rest, and what you own, and what you drive.
So the day some niggaz come for you, I’m really not surprised.
Truth had me up against the ropes
And semi-conscious without no boxing skills.
In L.A. we buy houses, fuck apartments and lofts.
I have to be perfectly honest:
You should have an anniversary to acknowledge the way I work the ebonics.
It’s a cold world, better pack your own heat.
Only in America could you find a way to make a healthy buck,
And still keep your attitude on self-destruct.
New York City gritty committee pity the fool that act shitty in the midst of the calm, the witty.
Hip-hop is universal now, it’s all commercial now.
It’s like a circle full of circus clowns up in the circuit now.
Starstruck with one buck, your girl look like Donald Duck.
I get imaginative with a mouth full of adjectives,
A brain full of adverbs, and a box full of laxatives,
Shittin’ on rappers, causin’ hospital accidents.
The sunset looks beautiful over the projects…
What a shame, it ain’t the same where we stand at.
If you look close, you can see the bricks chipped off.
Sometimes niggas miss when they lick off.