Classic rap lyrics about life, love, money and more.
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.
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?
Don’t sell yourself to fall in love,
With those things you do…
It’s a beautiful day, and everybody’s feelin’ wonderful,
The ladies is out, lookin’ fly, dressed comfortable.
I love to wake up, and feel the breeze through my window,
Slip on fatigues, grab a dutch, and roll some indo.
I can drink a whole Hennessy fifth.
Some call that a problem, but I call it a gift.
Just because no one can understand how you speak,
Don’t necessarily mean that what you be sayin is deep.
You can’t fool all the people all of the time,
But if you fool the right ones, the rest will fall behind.
Now what Clan you know with lines this ill?
Bust shots at Big Ben, like we got time to kill.
These niggaz ain’t thugs, the real thugs is the government.
Don’t matter if you Independent, Democrat or Republican,
Niggaz politickin’ the street, get into beef,
Start blastin’…now a new cat is executive chief.
I put the great Mother Nature on a pedestal.
She always fly, but today, she’s exceptional.
Nowadays rap artists coming half-hearted,
Commercial like pop, or underground like black markets.
Where were you the day hip-hop died?
Is it too early to mourn? Is it too late to ride?
We speak the love language, they speak from pain and anguish.
Some don’t love theyselves, so they perception is tainted.
Dallas Mavericks want me as a bald-headed 5’ 8" guard with a 95" vertical.
Vince Carter respect my legs, ask Shawn Kemp.
You would rather have a Lexus, or justice?
A dream, or some substance?
A Beamer, a necklace, or freedom?
It’s important to practice good hygiene,
At least if you wanna run with my team.
Player haters be givin’ me harsh looks,
But I’m tryin to sell records like Garth Brooks.
Nowadays, crazy ass bitches want they bills paid,
But can’t even make a good thing of Kool Aid.
A flower that grow in the ghetto know more about survival than the one from fresh meadows.
Just say the word, I’ll leave your DNA on the curb,
And stick my dick in your ear and fuck what you heard.
I’m gettin’ stacks while you askin’ people, ‘Do you want some fries with that?’
I found college awkward: another teacher, same old chalkboard.
I felt I was shifting backward, when I expected to shoot forward.
What is the meaning of C.L.A.S.S.?
Is it a Conspiracy Levelled At Sleepy Students trying to pass?
Niggaz thought M.O.P. stand for “mop” and shit…
And from the moment that I saw you, I knew you was trouble,
But I disregarded detour signs,
And did not stop til you was mine.
I guess God was like, ‘Aight, fine.’
Careful what you wish for, cause you just might get it in heaps.
Try to give it back, He be like, ‘Nah, that’s yours to keep.’
You can plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather, Ms. Jackson.
My music, you either fight, fuck, or dream to it…
I just want to innovate and stimulate minds,
Travel the world and penetrate the times,
Escape through rhythms,
In search of peace 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?
Fear is weakness, learn from what experience teaches.
Beware of leeches, the vampires, my secrets…
Never follow, cause most niggas is straight up cowards.
Take care of my body’s the temple, my mind is the power.
I start thinking:
How many souls hip-hop has affected?
How many dead folks this art resurrected?
How many nations this culture connected?
Who am I to judge one’s perspective?
Dear Mister-I’m-Too-Good-To-Call-Or-Write-My-Fans,
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.
I been drunk most my life, don’t ask me why.
Through ninth grade, I ain’t go to high school,
…I went to school high.
I make niggas eat dirt and fart dust,
Then give you a $80 gift certificate to Pussies “Я” Us.