I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death.
Nas, “N.Y. State of Mind,” Illmatic, 1994
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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.
Cats be talkin’, “Bobby I ain’t feelin’ ya.”
But I bet if I was peelin’ your cap back with a two-shot Dillinger
Hot lead released from my cylinder,
You’d be talkin’ ‘bout, “Bobby I’m feelin’ ya!”
You thought your shit was fly, but the flight was delayed.
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.
Believers of Jesus be denouncing Satan on every level,
But every Halloween they’re dressin’ like devils.
Feeling mad hostile, wearing Aéropostale,
Flowing like Christ when I speaks the gospel.
War’s extremely serious and it saddens me.
It’s all love, but love’s got a thin line
And Pun’s got a big nine,
Respect crime…but not when it reflect mine.
Commentating, illustrating, description-giving
Adjective expert. Analyzing, surmising,
Musical, myth-seeking people of the universe…
This is yours!
We ain’t speak, clicking heat is our Morse code.
I never fronted, you can get it if you want it…
Won’t say I’m the best, but I’m not that far from it.
Listenin to nothin, takin no suggestions,
All destructive criticisms that can’t improve on perfection.
A letter to you suckers,
Each and every one of you duck muthafuckas…
Your girl puckers her lips, so I stuck her.
You lose money chasing women;
Never lose women chasing money.
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.
This game is lame, the music comes second
So you can save that stupidness for all them artists you checkin.
Popularity don’t last long, I’m in it for classics,
Cause the other side of the biz is fake and it’s plastic.
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.
I know the feelin, when you feelin like a villain,
You be havin good thoughts but the evils be revealin’.
And the stresses of life can take you off the right path,
Jealousy and envy tends to infiltrate your staff…
We gotta hold it down so we can move on past
All adversities, so we can get through fast.
Why do I need ID to get ID?
If I had ID, I wouldn’t need ID.
Girls stick like Crazy Glue, they think they’re gettin’ dough;
But I treat hoes like drugs: I just say ‘No.’
Rhymes so def, rhymes rhymes galore,
Rhymes that you’ve never even heard before.
Now if you say you heard my rhyme, we gonna have to fight,
‘Cause I just made the muthafuckas up last night!
A day to God is a thousand years,
Men walk around with a thousand fears.
The true joy of love brings a thousand tears,
In the world of desire, there’s a thousand snares.
If you go platinum, it’s got nothing to do with luck,
It just means that a million people are stupid as fuck.
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog…
How you gonna see ‘em if you livin’ in the fog?
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.
I’m a street genius with a unique penis,
Got fly chicks on my dick that don’t even speak English.
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.
Perm in your hair or even a curly weave,
Wichya New Edition Bobby Brown button on your sleeve.
I tell you come here, you say, ‘Meet me half way,’
Cause brothers been popping that game all day.
My new shorty got a gymnastic back,
‘87 emerald green on a classic Jag.
She had the cleft palate, I ordered chef’s salad;
She had the club foot, with that little arm,
I couldn’t help but laugh…she ordered Chicken Parm.
This thing called rhymin’ is no different than coal minin’;
We both on assignment to unearth the diamond.
Mark you for death, won’t even talk that East or West crap.
From Watts to Lefrak, it ain’t where ya from, it’s where’s your gat.
Anything worth having is hard to keep,
I love you like my coffee, so hot and so sweet.
So, let’s stick it out so we never regret it,
I could forgive the past–but I never forget it.
I don’t understand the difficulty, people;
Love your brother, treat him as an equal.
Your whole appearance is a lie and it could never be true.
And if you really loved yourself, then you would try and be you.
What you base your happiness around?
Material, women, and large paper?
That means you inferior, not major.
Food for thought, so get a buffet plate.
The lyrics are so fat you might gain weight.
Though the meek shall inherit the earth, but don’t forget:
The poor are the ones who inherit the debt.
Trapped on a planet of pain and perpetrators
That you call ‘Earth,’ but I call ‘Hell’s Equator.’
The mind is a terrible thing to waste.
I show love cause it’s a terrible thing to hate.
The first lady in my life, but now you’re gone,
I learned through the years to keep carrying on.
Your picture brings me tears and memories,
The way things could be…and they should be, but they’re not.
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.
I don’t mind you talkin shit, just keep it in the first person.