Daily rap quotes about life, love and wisdom.
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?
Y’all niggaz ain’t rapping the same,
Fuck the flow, y’all jacking our slang,
I seen the same shit happen to Kane,
Three cuts in your eyebrow trying to wild out.
The game is ours, will never foul out,
Y’all just better hope we gracefully bow out.
Always knew that I would clock G’s,
But welcome to McDonald’s: May I take your order, please?
Gotta serve ya food that might give you cancer,
Cuz my son doesn’t take no for an answer.
Now I pay taxes that you never give me back;
What about diapers, bottles, and Similac?
Do I have to sell me a whole lotta crack
For decent shelter and clothes on my back?
Lyrically def and connecting, complete mic-wrecking…
No double-checking, vocals kill like weapons.
‘Cause in my physical I can express through song,
Delete stress like Motrin, then extend strong.
I drink Moet with Medusa, give her shotguns in hell
From the spliff that I lift and inhale…it ain’t hard to tell.
Deep like The Shining, sparkle like a diamond,
Sneak a Uzi on the Island in my army jacket lining.
Hit the Earth like a comet…invasion,
Nas is like the Afrocentric Asian: half-man, half-amazing.
It ain’t hard to tell, I excel then prevail,
The mic is contacted, I attract clientele.
My mic check is life or death, breathing a sniper’s breath,
I exhale the yellow smoke of buddha through righteous steps.
Gun control means using both hands, in my land.
As the night seemed darker, cops is on a hunt,
They interrupt your cipher, and crush your blunt.
See, you left your work at home so they pat you down for nothing;
Why in the hell does 10-4 keep fronting?
Never forget that I’m the one you thought wouldn’t make it.
I used to make money…now I just take it.
Why they hate us? Why they want to rape us for our culture?
They greet, defeat us, bleed us, then they leave us for the vultures.
They break the brilliant off with millions, tryna to break their focus;
More tan the man, the more alone and hopeless.
I’m sick and tired of these fake-ass niggas,
Saying that they’re catching bodies when they never pulled a trigger.
I know your style, I’ve seen it before,
You wearing army suit, now you think you’re hardcore.
Drinking on your 40’s, smoking on your blunts,
Can’t afford a chain so you wear gold fronts…
You fakin’ the funk, kid.
And you’d be getting it up the ass if you ever did a fucking bid.
My whole persona’s kinda laid back like a recliner,
And since a minor, I been fucking with marijuana.
They say the richest 400 Americans make more
Than the other 180 million combined,
And if that sounds fair, then you’re out of your mind.
So fuck a Republican, I’m out on my grind,
Cause being poor, being black, and Latino’s a crime.
That’s why we use the underworld to survive,
And I hate to admit I connive, but I’m alive cause I strive.
Make a dollar out a nickel and dime
I’m a hustler, I’m a hustler…
I could sell pussy to prostitutes, you a customer.
I know the price, know the risk, know the wrongs and the rights;
Still my blood flows ice…it’s just my life.
Asparagus tips look yummy, yummy, yummy,
Candied yams inside my tummy.
A collage of good eats, some snacks or nice treats,
Apple sauce and some nice red beets.
This is what we snack on when we’re questin’.
Times are hard in the ghetto, I gotta steal for a living;
Eating turkey-flavored Now & Laters for Thanksgiving.
You know that one auntie, you don’t wanna be rude,
…But every holiday, nobody eatin’ her food.
They call it Thanksgiving, I call your holiday ‘Hell Day’
Cause I’m from poverty, neglected by the wealthy.
Back in the days was kinda crazy, kid: I started out with nothin’.
Wasn’t livin’ like Thanksgiving; I was turkey without the stuffin’.
Cause when I was low, you was there for me,
And never left me alone because you cared for me.
And I could see you coming home after work late:
You’re in the kitchen trying to fix us a hot plate.
You just working with the scraps you was given,
And Mama made miracles every Thanksgivin’.
We went from African kings to Martin Luther King,
Now they wanna make us all Rodney King.
So they conspire to murder for hire;
Is the world just a big cup of water trying to douse the black fire?
Redman ready to rock rough rhymes,
Renegade rapper, rip when it’s rhyme time.
Punk push a pen and pencil when I’m pissed,
Pack pistol posse, flow some more pro shit.
You say you wanna be my leader?
I think you wanna be my God.
You say you on the side of the righteous?
I say I’m gonna hang with the wrong.
There’s truth where the filth is,
There’s lies in the law.
You want a whore with a white dress,
I want a wife in a thong.
Talk…well I heard talk is cheap.
But like beauty, talk is just skin deep.
And when you lie and you talk a lot,
People tell you to step off a lot.
Baby, baby, baby, I don’t wanna be rude,
But I know the cause of your bloody attitude.
I know why you act that way,
It usually happens on the 28th day.
I respect that…crazily,
When you’re done with the pads, can you come check me?
I heard you rhyme a few times, each time you blew it.
You’re soft, you can’t go off, I knew it.
Let’s be realistic, I’m not egotistic;
But you, your crew…just not that artistic.
Point blank: your song stank.
I know you want the truth, so let’s be frank.
Now I’m a veteran, spit a 16 sixteen ways,
Sixteen in a clip, spit it 16 ways.
I know six teens, pull up to a sweet sixteen and spray.
I’m like sixteen Jays, but the beat I can manage,
So every Sweet 16 is like Duke and Kansas.
And when I smiled, ‘Bing!’ I almost blinded her.
She said, ‘Great Scot, are you a thief?
Seems like you have a mouth full of gold teeth!’
Hahahaha, had to find that funny,
So I said, ‘No child, I work hard for the money.
And calling me a thief? Please…don’t even try it,
Sit down, eat your slice of pizza, and be quiet.’
I’m outspoken; my language is broken into a slang,
But it’s just a dialect that I select when I hang.
Having that gang war?
We want to know what you’re fighting for.
Fighting over colors?
All that gang shit’s for dumb motherfuckers.
But you go on thinking you’re hard…
Come to New York and we’ll see who gets robbed.
Take your jheri curls, take your black hats,
Take your wack lyrics and your bullshit tracks.
Now you’re mad and you’re thinking about stomping?
Well I’m from the South Bronx…Fuck Compton.
Another day, another burial,
Got you wondering ’bout the day when they bury you.
Tear drops stain the Wally’s that you rockin’,
On the block, candles burn, guns poppin’.
Never was hot, never was Pop,
But I never, ever stopped that real Hip Hop.
Got no paparazzi, got no company that got me;
Walking alone in the ‘hood, so it’s easy to spot me.
Microphone checka, swingin’ sword lecture,
Closin’ down the sector, supreme neck protector.
Better warn ‘em kid…Mr. Meth’s a boiling pot
About to blow his lid from the pressure.
Whoever underestimated, still waited,
Pumping the radio, finally they played it.
You wondered how come the album was late?
I was giving you time to get the last one straight.
You tremble for my treble,
You’re begging for the bass.
The voice is too vicious,
The same as the pace.
Now hear this mixture: where Hip Hop meets scripture,
Develop a negative into a positive picture.
I rub your face off the Earth and curse your family children,
Like Amityville; I drill the nerves in your cavity filling.
Insanity’s building a pavilion in my civilian
The cannon be the anarchy that humanity’s dealin’.
A villain without remorse who’s willing to out your boss
Forever…and take all the cheddar like child support.
Life’s a bitch and then you die.
That’s why we get high,
Cause you never know when you’re gonna go.
You good one minute, psycho the next,
No longer lettin’ it ride…too much Jekyll and Hyde.
Then you subtweet some weeks, busy settin’ your pride.
I’m grown, don’t really need that sort of mess in my life.
It’s the message in the song that makes you rock on,
Some people go to places where they don’t belong.
Whether wrong or right, a lot of people fight,
But I’m here to bless this mic, aight?
Before you try to fuck with Ren,
I’ll put two in your ass and you’ll be shittin’ a size 10.
In my heart, though, I do believe:
If you put out more love than you receive,
It’s bound to come back around, eventually.
I bake your ass like a cake and all y’all flakes get frosted.
Me? I got no jewels on my neck.
Why? I don’t need ‘em, I got your respect.
No sheep clothing,
I wear wolf;
Howl at the moon.
Cool…cause I don’t get upset,
I kick a hole in the speaker, pull the plug, then I jet.
The moral of the story is: Keep your mouth shut.
Cause everybody’s listenin’; speak and you fucked up.
I tell you like them old cats say:
Get what you get, and get your ass out the way.
Cause greed’ll get you 35 tight,
You 27…that’s the rest of your life, right?
Before I lay my head down to rest,
I roll up a nickel sack of cess to relieve the stress.
Brothers ain’t shit,
So don’t honk your horn, keep rolling.
No, I don’t wanna ride cause the shit might be stolen.
Anyway, I know your number:
You got a ‘Gas, Grass or Ass’ sticker on your bumper.
Platinum don’t mean shit
When you’re perpetrating someone else’s life,
And they life ain’t legit.
You know how it go when you got no dough:
Niggas goin out to party and you got no clothes.
And when you do get clothes, then you can’t go out
That’s the bullshit I’m talkin’ about.
Nah baby, I’m not gonna be able to do it,
I tried to take you serious before, and you blew it.
You figured you was slick, dissin me for the next man,
But when you heard he had a wife, it ruined your plans.
Now you wanna come back and act like it’s all that?
But I ain’t tryin to hear it, cause you sound real wack.
You got it over the first time, but that was the last time;
I’ll never make the same mistake again in a lifetime.
Everybody want to talk about who this and who that,
Who the realest and who wack, or who white or who black.
Critics want to mention that they miss when hip hop was rappin’…
Motherfucker, if you did, then Killer Mike’d be platinum.
I never had real friends ‘til now…
I never had to steal ends cause that’s foul.
I walk the streets with the baseball bat feelin’ secure,
But I try not to incite fights–that’s immature.
You won’t get a harvest if you don’t sow seeds,
Ill-gained wealth brings stress from dirty deeds.
The choices that you make will fulfill your needs,
But the shit you go through will be hard to believe.
I mastered The Art of War before a nigga read Sun Tzu,
Third degree black-belt, master of Gun-Fu.
Pop pills, smoke weed, even get drunk too;
And you do what you can, and I do what I want to.
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.
You can tell by the rhyme it’s my time to shine;
Let’s eat, motherfucker, I don’t dine on swine.
I don’t beef with turkeys, I told you the God’ll fold you,
Hard to digest: I suggest that you take tofu.
Wake up: all of that ‘crack in the street’ talk?
It’s made up, like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
I don’t like thugs, I don’t like nerds,
I don’t like myself and I hate bein’ disturbed.
Ayo, the arm bone connected to the hand bone,
Nigga, the hand bone connected to the damn chrome!
Ain’t no tellin’ what I’d do for a dollar…
I’m not your father, but guess what I’mma do to ya mama.
Niggas’ rap albums sound like love letters,
Pen in my hand, like: damn, fam, I could do much better.
Gangsta rappers can’t fight, so they rap about guns.
Somebody somewhere be saying some shit about you,
And that something be some bullshit when they know it ain’t true.
Now there she goes again, the dopest Ethiopian,
And now the world around me be gets movin in slow motion
Whenever she happens to walk by, why does the apple of my eye
Overlook and disregard my feelings no matter how much I try?
Let me break it down for you again,
You know I only say it because I’m truly genuine:
Don’t be a hard rock when you really are a gem.
They say the taste of revenge is sweet.
Well, let me see…
Prepare the table for a feast, take a seat, now let’s eat.
The way mothers feel for they sons, how fathers feel for they daughters;
When he date, he straight, chip off his own papa.
When she date, we wait behind the door with the sawed off,
Cause we think no one is good enough for our daughters.
I was a dreamer, life was a gamble;
Born in a casino, but God never give burdens you can’t handle.
Music is my ammo…I’m ready for battle.
My style is strong like hard lumber;
Cute chicks get the dick,
Ugly bitches get the wrong number.
Don’t mourn me when I’m gone, celebrate my travels;
Whenever you need me, just take a plane to the astral zones.
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.
You tried keeping it real, but you should try keeping it right.
I give you life decoded,
Nicely quoted.
A simple right or left
Can mean life or death.
Epic fail, or nice success,
Days of pleasure…nights of stress.
A friend with weed is a friend indeed,
Word to the stem, word to the seed.
Fuck the world, don’t ask me for shit,
Everything you get you gotta work hard for it.
Honeys shake your hips, you don’t stop,
And niggas pack the clips, keep on…
Now Joe wanna be like Bob,
Bob got it goin’ on with no job.
And everything Rob got he got from Robin,
And everything she got, she got ho-hoppin’.
My girl Jilly wanna be like Jackie,
Fat rope chains and I think that’s wick-wacky.
Tom and Dick wanna be like Harry,
Little do they know he’s bitin’ on Barry…
They say signs of the end is near;
I wonder…can I walk a righteous path holding a beer?
There’s four developing stages in the art of hip-hop,
And most of them developed from the snap, crackle and pop.
The first was the usage of an actual band,
The second was a drum machine made by a man,
The third was the human beatbox and percussion,
The fourth in line was samplin’ and the book of rhyme bustin’.
I mastered The Art of War before a nigga read Sun Tzu,
Third degree black-belt, master of Gun-Fu.
Pop pills, smoke weed, even get drunk too;
And you do what you can, and I do what I want to.
Been tested, ain’t fail: I’m tried and true.
When it’s all falling apart, my pride’s the glue.
I felt at times worthless…
Pulled shifts with shifty crime merchants,
Stained hearts, brainwashed by mind serpents.
The fact I’m still here, it’s clear it’s divine purpose.
Attention! Follow directions real close:
Keep out of reach of children, beware of overdose.
Too many milligram, but what made a iller jam?
My rhyme is the rhythm of thoughts that kill a man.
Ideas for the ear to fear, might split ‘em;
He’ll never forget ’em…he’ll rest in peace wit ’em.
At least when he left he’ll know what hit ’em:
The last breath of the words of death was ‘The Rhythm.’
I ain’t the captain of the yacht, but I’m on the boat;
I ain’t acting what I’m not, knowing that I don’t.
You niggaz acting like you will, but I know you won’t.
Man, I read between the lines of the eyes of your brows,
Your handshake ain’t matchin your smile…
I keep the ugly rhymes in the cellar of my cranium,
Where no one can see them or hear cries for freedom.
Chopped up raw thoughts the only thing I feed ‘em,
Release the beats from the cellar when I need ‘em.
I do my thing like B.B. King, my microphone is named Lucille.
Hey kid, walk straight, master your high.
I guess it’s true what they say:
When you’re too far gone, ain’t no turning back.
And coming from the Compton, mack, that’s a fuckin’ fact.
I never understood Planned Parenthood,
Cause I never met nobody planned to be a parent in the hood.
Want to know my occupation, home location, and means of transportation?
The correct combination unlocked your placenta…
I got a cellular phone with a rubber antenna,
And a 3-story house, drive a 4-door Ac.
Favorite song of all time? Mobb Deep’s ‘Hit It From the Back’
You can see the weakness of a man right through his iris.
God works in different ways and it shows,
And everybody knows: love comes and goes.
Now it’s my turn, and I am concerned
About idiots posing as kings.
What are we here to rule?
I thought we were supposed to sing.
And if we oughta sing, then let us begin to teach.
Many of you are educated…open your mouth and speak!
They say it’s lonely at the top, in whatever you do,
You always gotta watch motherfuckers around you.
Nobody’s invincible, no plan is foolproof,
We all must meet our Moment of Truth.
Guru, “Moment of Truth,” from Gang Starr’s Moment of Truth, 1998
I don’t know why y’all so highly regarded;
You rhyme like you’re borderline mildly retarded.