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?
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.
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?
God’s the seamstress that tailor-fitted my pain.
You can do all them push-ups to pump up your chest,
I got a 12 gauge Mossberg to pump up your chest,
Have you gasping for air after that shell hit your vest.
Fear me like you fear God, ‘cause I bring death.
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.
Hip-hop is universal now, it’s all commercial now.
It’s like a circle full of circus clowns up in the circuit now.
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.
Till the roof comes off, till the lights go out,
Till my legs give out, can’t shut my mouth,
Till the smoke clears out – am I high? Perhaps.
Imma rip this shit, till my bones collapse.
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?
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.
…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!
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.
If I upset you, don’t stress. Never forget
That God isn’t finished with me yet.
I feel His hand on my brain…
When I write rhymes, I go blind and let the Lord do His thang.