Through the fame, through the fire and the flames,
I adapt to the pain, real niggas do the same.
And though we homies and we no longer hang
You know you know me, and that love still remains.
Tag Archives: 2005
Cocaine trafficking, your boy’s back again,
Moving bricks like I got a degree in scaffolding.
Fucking with some cats from Newark…half of them Jewish,
Cool white boys riding around, blasting my music,
And I’m taxin’ them like Jackson-Hewitt.
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 used to be fly, but you crashed your plane.
Trapped on a planet of pain and perpetrators
That you call ‘Earth,’ but I call ‘Hell’s Equator.’
Food for thought, eat my words with your mind:
Emcees are grapes, and grapes are crushed to wine.
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 wonder if these wack niggas realize they wack,
And they the reason that my people say they tired of rap.
Whether chocolate or vanilla, or you’re somewhere in between,
A cappuccino mocha or a caramel queen,
Rejected by the black, not accepted by the white world,
And this is dedicated to them dark-skinned white girls.
Never looking back or too far in front of me,
The present is a gift, and I just want to Be.
Your new CD is a weed plate, nothin’ but love songs,
100% pure garbage, just something to break up buds on.
Battling me is some deadly shit,
So come equipped with rhymes, guns and two extra clips.
Aim for the head, ‘cause you don’t wear a vest there,
Bullet makes a window, your brain needing fresh air.
Scared of a bunch of water? Then get out the rain.
Order a rapper for lunch, and spit out the chain.
I’m Ready to Die without a Reasonable Doubt
Smoke Chronic and hit it Doggystyle before I go out.
Until they sign my Death Certificate, All Eyez on Me
I’m still at it, Illmatic, and that’s The Documentary.
You pout like a trout in a drought…can’t get out.
You want to scream, but fish can’t shout.
Golly, he’s just a pest and your worst best friend,
Who mend and rip space-time fabric like polyester blend.
So many programs you watch on the sofa,
But the real program sit on top of your shoulders.
Lessons cut short to prep for tests that only test how well you prep.
…Man, no wonder why the score’s a mess.
Get burnt like a candle, very hard to handle,
Do miracles in Nikes like Jesus did in sandals.
So when the devil wants to dance with you, you better say never,
Because the dance with the devil might last you forever.
Gangsta rappers can’t fight, so they rap about guns.
You only get honest expression when I spit in your ear;
That means even when I’m dissing you I’m being sincere.
I’m not a ‘Businessman,’ I’m a Business… man! Let me handle my business, damn!
Too bad your inner sheep never forgets to follow…
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.
Ras Kass • “Shine” • 2005
Not to sound cynical, but all you ever learn in prison is how to be a better criminal.
– Ras Kass, “Shine,” 12″, 2005
I cause disasters, I am the master,
Turning little bastards into fucking Casper.
So put your name on a tombstone…
Cause when you try to kill me, I refuse to die alone.
Gangsta rappers can’t fight, so they rap about guns.
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…
You a white boy in a fuckin’ droptop,
Bumpin’ 2Pac, actin’ like you hard? Stop.
Hip-hop music make the world go round,
But buying a record don’t put you down.
You listen to thugs, it don’t make you one;
Never met a Blood or Crip, but you act like one?
This ain’t no alien conspiracy theory, this shit is real;
Written on the dollar underneath the Masonic seal.
You see, if you ever wanted to ever be anything,
There’d always be somebody that shoot down any dream.
There’ll always be haters, that’s the way it is:
Hater niggas marry hater bitches, and have hater kids.
Different day, same shit, ain’t nothing good in the hood,
I’d run away from this bitch and never come back, if I could.