Niggas out here buyin’ hoes bags n’ shoes,
But couldn’t buy their kid a new coat for school?
White Jesus in my crock pot,
I mix the shit with some soda.
Now Black Jesus turn water to wine,
…And all I had to do was turn the stove up.
From open mics to solutions, I got a collage of answers,
And a 10-point program, just like the Black Panthers:
1: First, respect yourself as an artist
If you don’t respect yourself, then your rhymes is garbage.
2: Make sure your crew is as tight as you
Cause when them niggaz fallin off, they gonna bring you down too.
3: Understand the meaning of MC
The power to Move the Crowd like Moses split the seas.
4: Know your shit and don’t ever be blunted
If you don’t know what your words mean, then your rhymes mean nothin.
5: Kick facts in the raps, and curse with clarity
What’s a curse when language is immersed in vulgarity?
6: We gonna fix industrial poli-tricks
Shit, they made an art form out of ridin dicks.
7: We soldiers for God needin new recruits
So if you rhymin for the loot, then you’s a prostitute.
8: Acknowledge that you need food on your plate
In order to say your grace, make sure your business is straight.
9: We buildin black minds with intelligence
And when you freestyle, keep the subject matter relevant.
10: Every MC grab a pen
And write some conscious lyrics to tell the children.
Up against Goliath, to bring butter home.
I’m David on pavement, sling another stone.
I only drink Cristal, or Imperial Moet,
No more weak ass Rose, that’s why the game too sweet.
We don’t wear tight ass clothes, we don’t do down South beats,
That ain’t New York–I restore our identification,
‘Cause dick-riding never been a form of transportation.
Shawn Carter was born December 4th,
Weighing in at 10 pounds, 8 ounces.
He was the last of my 4 children,
The only one who didn’t give me any pain when I gave birth to him.
…And that’s how I knew that he was a special child.
Brain cells are lit, ideas start to hit,
Next the formation of words that fit.
At the table I sit, making it legit,
And when my pen hits the paper…ahhhh shit!
Dutch in my ear, Olde E in my palm,
I Freddy Krueger your face, Michael Myers your moms.
You botherin mine? That’s when I’m sparkin the nine.
We ain’t speak, clicking heat is our Morse code.
Bitch is in the back looking righteous
In a tight dress…I think I might just
Hit her with a little Biggie 101:
How to tote a gun,
And have fun with Jamaican rum.
I’ve been layin’, waiting for your next mistake,
I put in work, and watch my status escalate.
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.
MCs get a little bit of love and think they hot,
Talkin bout how much money they got…all y’all records sound the same.
I’m sick of that fake thug, R&B-rap scenario, all day on the radio,
Same scenes in the video, monotonous material.
…Y’all don’t hear me though:
These record labels slang our tapes like dope.
You can be next in line and signed, and still be writing rhymes and broke.
Why do I need ID to get ID?
If I had ID, I wouldn’t need ID.
And as for the critics, tell me I don’t get it.
Everybody can tell you how to do it, they never did it.
When I get involved, I give it my heart,
I mean my mind, my soul, my body: I mean every part.
But if it doesn’t work out, yo, it just doesn’t.
It wasn’t meant to be, you know, it just wasn’t.
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.
This thing called rhymin’ is no different than coal minin’;
We both on assignment to unearth the diamond.
Food for thought, so get a buffet plate.
The lyrics are so fat you might gain weight.
The mind is a terrible thing to waste.
I show love cause it’s a terrible thing to hate.
I’m surrounded by psychopathic little fellas,
Ghetto dwellas, with ammunition in their cellas,
And no remorse in their hearts
When the shit starts it don’t end…
Until somebody’s gone with the wind.
Know the shit I don’t write be the illest shit that’s ever been recited in the game,
Word to the hyphen in my name!
I got mouths to feed,
Unnecessary beef is more cows to breed.
Rappers act so wild, and love to profile,
Frontin’ hard, but ain’t got no style.
Consider me the entity within the industry without a history of spitting the epitome of stupidity.
In time, you’ll see a thin line between friend and rival.
Between you and me: stupidity and men’s bravado.
If you love someone, you should say it often,
You never know when they’ll be layin’ in a coffin.
Wake up, it’s important that you know that
No one on Earth is promised tomorrow.
Lyrically, I’m supposed to represent;
I’m not only the client, I’m the player president.
I’m only trying to show you how black niggas live,
But you don’t want your little ones acting like this.
Lil Amy told Becky, Becky told Jenny,
And now they all know the skinny.
Lil Joey got his durag on,
Driving down the street blasting Tupac’s song.
Feds still lurking,
They see I’m still putting work in.
Cause somewhere in America…
Miley Cyrus is still twerkin’.
It’s drones over Brooklyn, you blink, you could get tooken,
And now you’re understanding the definition of ‘Crooklyn.’
Pigs on parade, but bacon fryin’ and cookin’,
Cause kids’ tired of dyin’ and walkin’ round like they shooken.
You dudes is noodles, I got more ziti to bake.
You dudes is cake, I keep two biscuits on the waist.
Razor blades under the tongue, I will eat your face,
Appetite for destruction, I am starvin’ today.
Got a money hungry lawyer that’ll eat the case,
And that’s just food for thought, don’t let it go to waste.
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.
I’m your idol, the highest title, Numero Uno,
I’m not a Puerto Rican, but I’m speakin so that you know,
And understand, I got the gift of speech,
And it’s a blessin, so listen to the lesson I preach…
You can tell by the rhyme it’s my time to shine;
Let’s eat, motherfucker, I don’t dine on swine.
I don’t beef with turkeys, I told you the God’ll fold you,
Hard to digest: I suggest that you take tofu.
Music business hates me cause the industry ain’t make me,
Hustlers and boosters embrace me and the music I be makin.
I dumbed down for my audience to double my dollars…
They criticized me for it, yet they all yell ‘HOLLA!’
If skills sold, truth be told, I’d probably be, lyrically, Talib Kweli.
Truthfully I wanna rhyme like Common Sense,
But I did five mil…I ain’t been rhymin like Common since.
Why give you the cure when the disease makes money?
Real, rough and rugged, shine like a gold nugget,
Every time I pick up the microphone, I drug it.
My sense of self and my mental health
Is much more powerful than any hint of wealth.
Just because no one can understand how you speak,
Don’t necessarily mean that what you be sayin is deep.
New York, New York is where we live and we’re thorough,
Never taking shorts, ‘cause Brooklyn’s the borough.
Peace to Uptown, to Queens and The Bronx,
Long Island and Jersey get as fly as they want.
But I must tell you, where we rest is no joke…
So let me break it down to sections for you slow pokes:
Fort Greene, Bed-Stuy, Flatbush, Brownsville,
Crown Heights and East New York will be down till,
Medina takes respect for the styles we bring,
‘Cause in Brooklyn we be into our own thing.
Wake up: all of that ‘crack in the street’ talk?
It’s made up, like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
Breathe in…inhale vapors from bright stars that shine,
Breathe out…weed smoke retrace the skyline.
Age ain’t nothing but a number, that’s what Chi-Ali said.
OK, then why don’t you get that through the judge’s head?
Put a quarter in your ass, ‘cause ya played yourself.
Won’t cha…picture life as my wife, just think:
Full length mink, fat X and O links,
Bracelets to match, conversation was all that,
Showed you the safe combinations and all that.
Guess you could say you’s the one I trusted…
Who would ever think that you would spread like mustard?