Starstruck with one buck, your girl look like Donald Duck.
I come prepared with the white suit and stethoscope,
Listen to your heartbeat, delete beep beep BEEP.
Your insurance is high, but my price is cheap.
Rhyme to kill, rhyme to murder, rhyme to stomp,
Rhyme to ill, rhyme to romp,
Rhyme to smack, rhyme to shock, rhyme to roll,
Rhyme to destroy anything, toy boy.
On the microphone:
I’m Poppa Large, big shot on the East Coast.
They never understood, many people were so slow.
My funky type of rhyme, and my style is pyscho.
– Kool Keith, “Raise It Up,” from Ultramagnetic MC’s The Four Horsemen, 1993
More rhymes are funny now, happy and silly now.
Happy-go-lucky on the mic, and meanwhile,
You standin’ still, lookin out for a good rhyme,
Makin the wack junk, wastin’ my good time.
I drop styles on ears…the public bite ‘em.
Not many went to school, so the dummies wouldn’t write ’em.
They say, “Yo Keith! You’re Kool, you usin’ big words!”
I went to college, I’m even more stupid, herb.
I get atomic, hypo-galactical…
Word to mom, I’m in my own world.
Galaxy rays? Powerful.
They use the simple back and forth, the same, old rhythm
That a baby can pick up, and join, right with ‘em.
But their rhymes are pathetic, they think they copacetic
Using nursery terms, at least not poetic…
Infrareds on little people standing with some big heads,
I was Captain Kirk, walkin’ with a black t-shirt.
LAPD, the nurse asked did my knee hurt?
I was in pain, little Martians tryin’ ta take my brain,
Hospitals came, detectives wrote down my name.
I was to blame, my life never been the same.
A true story; I tell ya, it’ll never bore me.
My classmate died, my other friend named Cory
Drinkin’ 40s, he jumped out the project window,
Stabbed himself with a yellow number 2 pencil.
Shakespeare’s gone, don’t even think about it.
I call you once…you never dialed back.
Twice…you never dialed back.
Saturday morning, live, I’m on Soul Train, talkin’ to Don Cornelius.
Saturday night, my phone rings…
Saturday night, I won’t answer.
Saturday night, my phone rings again…
Saturday night, I don’t answer.
Dallas Mavericks want me as a bald-headed 5’ 8" guard with a 95" vertical.
Vince Carter respect my legs, ask Shawn Kemp.
Think about it, if you was there standing looking at me.
What would you do, if I hit your face with dog doo-doo?