I’d count my blessings, but I suck at math.
Eminem, “So Far…,” The Marshall Mathers LP 2, 2013
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I’d count my blessings, but I suck at math.
If we gotta dumb down our style and ABC it, then so be it,
Cause nowadays these kids just don’t give a shit ‘bout lyrics.
All they wanna hear is a beat and that’s it,
Long as they can go to the club and get blitzed,
Pick up some chicks and get some digits.
And the DJs playing them hits, “Oh, this my jam, this my shit!”
We don’t know a word to a verse, all we know is the chorus,
Cause the chorus repeats the same four words for us.
Be a king? Think not.
Why be a king when you can be a God?
Those who flashin’ don’t blast, they still buffoons,
Just blowin out hot air, they should fill balloons.
I’m like them shorties that could kill for goons,
They started hustlin’ in April to cop wheels in June.
All I see is sissies in magazines smiling…
Whatever happened to wildin’ out and being violent?
Whatever happened to catching a good, old-fashioned, passionate ass whoopin’?
And getting your shoes, coat and your hat tooken?
They say that love is powerful as cough syrup and Styrofoam.
All I know is I fell asleep and woke up in that Monte Carlo
With the ugly Kardashian…
Lamar, oh, sorry. Yo, we done both set the bar low.
You can’t take the heat, get ya ass out the kitchen
Matter fact, take ya ass back in there and wash the dishes.
Don’t sell yourself to fall in love,
With those things you do…
I wanna just take this time out to be perfectly honest;
Cause there’s a lotta shit I keep bottled that hurts deep inside of my soul,
And just know that I grow colder the older I grow.
This boulder on my shoulder gets heavy and harder to hold,
And this load is like the weight of the world and I think my neck is breaking,
Should I just give up or try to live up to these expectations?
Put your hands where I can see ‘em, so they look like 12 PM
On the dot, see this Glock? Don’t make me give these shells freedom.
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.
When you fall for a girl named Hope
How you gonna have any when she decides to go?
I swear these niggas from the future…
Where they got camouflage chains and invisible gats
Cause I don’t see none of the shit I hear in their raps.
When I was born, my mama’s pussy had the new car smell.
Nigga hit me on the Sidekick sayin’ he gon’ shoot me:
Soundin’ like a real groupie.
He a bitch with a heater like Lara Croft,
He gonna get his ass wet like Noah’s Ark.
Got the choppa won’t hesitate to squeeze,
Get his ass cut like a Whopper with Cheese.
I’m somethin’ serious like Crips that bust gats,
Ignorant with it like Bloods that bust back.
…Not to mention, I take authority horribly.
Fuck a job, nigga, that conversation just bores me.
Sick, sick dreams of picnic scenes:
Two kids, sixteen with M-16’s and ten clips each,
And them shits reach through six kids each,
And Slim gets blamed in Bill Clint’s speech to fix these streets?
Somebody somewhere be saying some shit about you,
And that something be some bullshit when they know it ain’t true.
I never gave a rat’s ass or a flyin’ fuck…
Drivin’ drunk in a fire truck with the siren stuck,
Slammin’ the brakes, skiddin’ out cause the tires suck.
Went to pull you off my dick and got the pliers stuck.
You better run, cause I’m probably the only one
Crazy enough to shoot your ass with a knife and stab you with a gun.
I don’t know why y’all so highly regarded;
You rhyme like you’re borderline mildly retarded.
…That’s when you start to stare at who’s in the mirror,
And see yourself as a kid again, and you get embarrassed.
And I got nothin’ to do but make you look stupid as parents,
You fuckin’ do-gooders; too bad you couldn’t do good at marriage!
How you looking like beef jerky, beefing in every verse,
But never beefing in person? Randy Savage.
You wouldn’t snap a Slim Jim,
You wouldn’t rip a wrapping on Christmas in Santa’s attic
With the hands of Eddie Scissors…ain’t you average?
This’ll be the last package I ever send your ass.
It’s been six months and still no word, I don’t deserve it.
I know you got my last two letters; I wrote the addresses on ‘em perfect.
So this is my cassette I’m sending you, I hope you hear it,
I’m in the car right now, I’m doing 90 on the freeway.
Hey Slim, I drank a fifth of vodka, you dare me to drive?
You know the song by Phil Collins, “In the Air Tonight”
About that guy who coulda saved that other guy from drowning
But didn’t, then Phil saw it all, then at a a show he found him?
That’s kinda how this is, you coulda rescued me from drowning.
Now it’s too late; I’m on a thousand downers now, I’m drowsy,
And all I wanted was a lousy letter or a call.
I hope you know I ripped ALL of your pictures off the wall.
I love you Slim. We coulda been together, think about it.
You ruined it now, I hope you can’t sleep and you dream about it,
And when you dream I hope you can’t sleep and you SCREAM about it.
I hope your conscience EATS AT YOU and you can’t BREATHE without me.
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.