My mind’s my 9, my pen’s my Mac-10.
My target? All you wack niggaz who started rappin’.
Two wrongs don’t make it right, but it damn sure makes us even.
My old soul remains forever young…
I’ve done it all, and still I’m doing shit that I ain’t ever done.
See, it depends on your definition of winning;
I ain’t started from the bottom, I started from the beginning.
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.
Of course I’m funky like fat people having intercourse.
Basically, the funk is stuck in your teeth…so get the dental floss.
You better recognize, adjust your bifocals;
Your style is local…I sit on the beach in Acapulco.
I put words together like Peter Jennings,
And skate on motherfuckers like Peggy Fleming.
Fuck movin’ mountains, I move planets and leave you Earthless.
Terror Squad: the worst that hurt shit, split your universes.
I can’t relate to livin’ less than great.
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.
Crazy frustration, about my lovin situation;
When patience was a virtue…but I wasn’t used to waitin.
Take a sip from the cup of death…
And when you’re shaking my right hand, I’ll stab you with the left.
If you don’t got endz, you won’t be gettin’ no skinz,
And if you don’t got money, you won’t scoop a honey.
If you don’t got cash, you won’t be gettin’ no ass,
And if you don’t got loot, you won’t be knockin’ no boots.
Niggas out here buyin’ hoes bags n’ shoes,
But couldn’t buy their kid a new coat for school?
Lyrical lecture, word architecture,
Rap director, the best in my sector.
Microphone cool chief, releasin the smooth speech…
I get nasty with a pen and some loose leaf.
I got beef with commercial-ass niggas with gold teeth
Lampin’ in a Lexus eatin’ beef.
A born terror, a rebel without a pause…
Ain’t never had a good Christmas, so who is Santa Claus?
Americanomics works, and I won’t argue that is true.
But if the economy is getting better, getting better for who?
Well, if you ask me, I’m doing much worse than before,
With the welfare cuts, I don’t eat no more.
So if I did wanna go out, I couldn’t go nowhere,
Cause I ate every last one of them reindeer.
Rudolph first, I went down the list,
I got so hungry, I just couldn’t resist.
I ate Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Dixon,
Fried them up and then started to mix them.
And before you knew it, they were all gone,
I wonder what y’all gonna do about my reindeer song!
It was December 24th on Hollis Ave. in the dark,
When I see a man chilling with his dog in the park.
I approached very slowly with my heart full of fear,
Looked at his dog, oh my God, an ill reindeer!
But then I was illin’ because the man had a beard,
And a bag full of goodies, 12 o’clock had neared.
So I turned my head a second and the man had gone,
But he left his driver’s wallet smack dead on the lawn.
I picked the wallet up, then I took a pause…
Took out the license and it cold said ‘Santa Claus!’
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.
I know you don’t wanna hear my opinion,
There come many paths and you must choose one.
And if you don’t change then the rain soon come.
See, you might win some, but you just lost one.
MC’s they retreat cause they know I can beat ‘em,
And eat ’em in a battle and the ref won’t cheat ’em.
I’m the best takin’ out all rookies,
So forget Oreos…eat Cool J cookies.
Complainin’ to my lawyer how this rookie tried to frisk me…
Jealous of my jeep, I gave his badge to the chief,
And got his ass directin’ traffic in the heat for a week.
Elvis was a hero to most,
But he never meant shit to me, you see.
Straight up racist that sucker was,
Simple and plain…
Motherfuck him AND John Wayne.
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.
I’m real good at troubleshooting;
When there’s trouble…I start shooting.
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.
A wise man sees failure as progress.
A fool divorces his knowledge and misses the logic,
And loses his soul in the process.
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.
Never we sleep, a thug doesn’t rest,
Cause a wise man said: it was a cousin of death.
I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death.
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!
Let’s pretend we’re both guns, and make this shit erratic:
I’ll be the revolver, you can play the automatic.
Automatic flip scripts, revolver show loyalty.
Each gun is die-able, but only one’s reliable.
You shoot fast, but in the end you jam,
Then I click back, and turn your brains into spam.
You gotta understand: I’m a man with needs that needs fulfilling.
And if you ain’t with it, somebody else is willing.
I got the gangsta in me, plus I’m not friendly
To a bitch-ass whose mouth runs more laps than the Indy.