White Jesus in my crock pot,
I mix the shit with some soda.
Now Black Jesus turn water to wine,
…And all I had to do was turn the stove up.
Tag Archives: brooklyn
God gave us music, so we play with our words.
Do the math: You never settle for less than the whole if you knew the half.
From open mics to solutions, I got a collage of answers,
And a 10-point program, just like the Black Panthers:1: First, respect yourself as an artist
If you don’t respect yourself, then your rhymes is garbage.2: Make sure your crew is as tight as you
Cause when them niggaz fallin off, they gonna bring you down too.3: Understand the meaning of MC
The power to Move the Crowd like Moses split the seas.4: Know your shit and don’t ever be blunted
If you don’t know what your words mean, then your rhymes mean nothin.5: Kick facts in the raps, and curse with clarity
What’s a curse when language is immersed in vulgarity?6: We gonna fix industrial poli-tricks
Shit, they made an art form out of ridin dicks.7: We soldiers for God needin new recruits
So if you rhymin for the loot, then you’s a prostitute.8: Acknowledge that you need food on your plate
In order to say your grace, make sure your business is straight.9: We buildin black minds with intelligence
And when you freestyle, keep the subject matter relevant.10: Every MC grab a pen
And write some conscious lyrics to tell the children.
Up against Goliath, to bring butter home.
I’m David on pavement, sling another stone.
I only drink Cristal, or Imperial Moet,
No more weak ass Rose, that’s why the game too sweet.
We don’t wear tight ass clothes, we don’t do down South beats,
That ain’t New York–I restore our identification,
‘Cause dick-riding never been a form of transportation.
Shawn Carter was born December 4th,
Weighing in at 10 pounds, 8 ounces.
He was the last of my 4 children,
The only one who didn’t give me any pain when I gave birth to him.
…And that’s how I knew that he was a special child.
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!
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.
We ain’t speak, clicking heat is our Morse code.
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.
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.
Why do I need ID to get ID?
If I had ID, I wouldn’t need ID.
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.
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.
This thing called rhymin’ is no different than coal minin’;
We both on assignment to unearth the diamond.
Food for thought, so get a buffet plate.
The lyrics are so fat you might gain weight.
The mind is a terrible thing to waste.
I show love cause it’s a terrible thing to hate.
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.
Know the shit I don’t write be the illest shit that’s ever been recited in the game,
Word to the hyphen in my name!
I got mouths to feed,
Unnecessary beef is more cows to breed.
Rappers act so wild, and love to profile,
Frontin’ hard, but ain’t got no style.
Consider me the entity within the industry without a history of spitting the epitome of stupidity.
In time, you’ll see a thin line between friend and rival.
Between you and me: stupidity and men’s bravado.
If you love someone, you should say it often,
You never know when they’ll be layin’ in a coffin.
Wake up, it’s important that you know that
No one on Earth is promised tomorrow.
Lyrically, I’m supposed to represent;
I’m not only the client, I’m the player president.
I’m only trying to show you how black niggas live,
But you don’t want your little ones acting like this.
Lil Amy told Becky, Becky told Jenny,
And now they all know the skinny.
Lil Joey got his durag on,
Driving down the street blasting Tupac’s song.
Feds still lurking,
They see I’m still putting work in.
Cause somewhere in America…
Miley Cyrus is still twerkin’.
It’s drones over Brooklyn, you blink, you could get tooken,
And now you’re understanding the definition of ‘Crooklyn.’
Pigs on parade, but bacon fryin’ and cookin’,
Cause kids’ tired of dyin’ and walkin’ round like they shooken.
You dudes is noodles, I got more ziti to bake.
You dudes is cake, I keep two biscuits on the waist.
Razor blades under the tongue, I will eat your face,
Appetite for destruction, I am starvin’ today.
Got a money hungry lawyer that’ll eat the case,
And that’s just food for thought, don’t let it go to waste.
You and your friends…always together,
No time for the B-I-G, so I’m O-U-T.
The sex was great, but the headaches I can’t take.
I think I made a very big mistake.
I go to Queens for queens to get the crew from Brooklyn,
Make money in Manhattan and never been tooken.
Go Uptown and the Bronx to boogie down,
Get strong on the Island, recoup, and lay around.
I’m your idol, the highest title, Numero Uno,
I’m not a Puerto Rican, but I’m speakin so that you know,
And understand, I got the gift of speech,
And it’s a blessin, so listen to the lesson I preach…
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.
Music business hates me cause the industry ain’t make me,
Hustlers and boosters embrace me and the music I be makin.
I dumbed down for my audience to double my dollars…
They criticized me for it, yet they all yell ‘HOLLA!’
If skills sold, truth be told, I’d probably be, lyrically, Talib Kweli.
Truthfully I wanna rhyme like Common Sense,
But I did five mil…I ain’t been rhymin like Common since.
Why give you the cure when the disease makes money?
Real, rough and rugged, shine like a gold nugget,
Every time I pick up the microphone, I drug it.
My sense of self and my mental health
Is much more powerful than any hint of wealth.
For 9-6, the only MC with a flu.
Yeah, I rhyme sick, I be what you tryin’ to do.
Just because no one can understand how you speak,
Don’t necessarily mean that what you be sayin is deep.
New York, New York is where we live and we’re thorough,
Never taking shorts, ‘cause Brooklyn’s the borough.
Peace to Uptown, to Queens and The Bronx,
Long Island and Jersey get as fly as they want.
But I must tell you, where we rest is no joke…
So let me break it down to sections for you slow pokes:
Fort Greene, Bed-Stuy, Flatbush, Brownsville,
Crown Heights and East New York will be down till,
Medina takes respect for the styles we bring,
‘Cause in Brooklyn we be into our own thing.
Wake up: all of that ‘crack in the street’ talk?
It’s made up, like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
Breathe in…inhale vapors from bright stars that shine,
Breathe out…weed smoke retrace the skyline.
Age ain’t nothing but a number, that’s what Chi-Ali said.
OK, then why don’t you get that through the judge’s head?
Put a quarter in your ass, ‘cause ya played yourself.
Won’t cha…picture life as my wife, just think:
Full length mink, fat X and O links,
Bracelets to match, conversation was all that,
Showed you the safe combinations and all that.
Guess you could say you’s the one I trusted…
Who would ever think that you would spread like mustard?
You’re too light to fight, plus you’re too thin to win.
Who ya gonna call when I break your glass chin?
Yo, it’s 1 universal law but 2 sides to every story,
3 strikes and you be in for life, mandatory.
4 MC’s murdered in the last 4 years,
I ain’t tryin to be the 5th one, the Millennium is here.
Yo, it’s 6 million ways to die, from the 7 deadly thrills,
8-year olds gettin’ found with 9 mill’s.
It’s 10 P.M., where your seeds at? What’s the deal?
Braniac dumb-dumbs, bust the scientifical,
Approach to the course and the force is centrifugal.
Can you find your way through the lyrics that be catchin’ ‘em?
Throw another rhyme across the room, they be fetchin’ ’em.
Telling my business to kids I don’t even know,
You’re like a daytime talk show…and that’s low.
Your reign on the top was short like leprechauns,
As I crush so-called Willies, thugs, and rapper-dons.
On the square…I’m not riffin’ like Andy Griffith,
Just fed up, goin’ head up, with competition.
When you say you love me, it doesn’t matter.
It goes into my head as just chit-chatter.
You may think it’s egotistical or just worry-free,
But what you say, I take none of it seriously.
Ayo, the arm bone connected to the hand bone,
Nigga, the hand bone connected to the damn chrome!
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?
Fake MC’s – they always act hard
But won’t walk the streets without their bodyguards.
Rappers can’t sleep, need sleepin’,
B.I.G. keep creepin’,
Bullets heat-seekin’,
Casualties need treatin’,
Dumb rappers need teachin’.
I was always taught my do’s and don’ts:
For do’s I did, and for don’ts, I said I won’t.
Don’t you like when the winter’s gone,
And all of a sudden it starts gettin’ warm?
The trees and the grass start lookin’ fresh,
And the sun and sky be lookin’ their best…
Look: if I shoot you, I’m brainless,
But if you shoot me, then you’re famous.
What’s a nigga to do?
Ain’t nothin’ like hip-hop music;
You like it cause you choose it.
Most DJ’s won’t refuse it,
A lotta sucka MC’s misuse it.
Lemonade was a popular drink and it still is;
I get more props and stunts than Bruce Willis.
This country of ours was built on violence;
If your ass got in the way, you was killed in silence.
And these been the ways since back in the days:
Just ask the Indians or the African slaves.
I’d rather die enormous than live dormant.
If you can’t respect that, your whole perspective is wack.
Maybe you’ll love me when I fade to black.
Stro Rockets • “From Me” • 2017
I think we all motherfuckin’ hypocrites,
Asking God for life and we ain’t even livin’ it.
Stro Rockets, “From Me,” Grade A Frequencies EP, 2017
Joey Bada$$ • “FOR MY PEOPLE” • 2017
Music is a form of expression,
Imma use mine just to teach you a lesson.
– Joey Bada$$, “FOR MY PEOPLE,” ALL-AMERICAN BADA$$, 2017
I’m not a ‘Businessman,’ I’m a Business… man! Let me handle my business, damn!
Said she loved my necklace, started relaxin’.
Now that’s what the fuck I call a chain reaction!
Guru • “Watch What You Say” • Jazzmatazz Volume 2: The New Reality • 1995
Too much weak talk, and not enough real hip-hop.
Guru, “Watch What You Say,” Jazzmatazz Volume 2: The New Reality, 1995
MC Lyte • “Search 4 The Lyte” • Act Like You Know • 1991
Some type of grief you must experience
In order to appreciate happiness.
‘Cause if you are always satisfied,
Life will just pass by; you would’ve never tried.
MC Lyte, “Search 4 The Lyte,” Act Like You Know, 1991
Ka • “Chamber” • 2012
Was crazy poor, now I’m tryna get mad rich;
With a good girl…you couldn’t tell, cause she’s a bad bitch.
Ka, “Chamber,” Grief Pedigree, 2012
Special Ed • “Ready 2 Attack” • 1990
Christmas is over and this is my resolution:
To stop the confusion.
Let the fresh get fresh, and the stale get staler
And throw em in a pail of
Trash…with the other trash, and smash down the lid,
For all the weak shit they did.
Special Ed, “Ready 2 Attack,” Legal, 1990
Ladybug Mecca (Digable Planets) • “It’s Good To Be Here” • 1993
We love it where we from, but we kick it where we at.
Ladybug Mecca, “It’s Good to Be Here,” from Digable Planets’ Reachin’ (A New Refutation of Time and Space), 1993
Jeru Tha Damaja • “Come Clean” • 1994
Got a freaky, freaky, freaky-freaky flow,
Control the mic like Fidel Castro.
– Jeru Tha Damaja, “Come Clean,” The Sun Rises in the East, 1994
Masta Ace • “Young Black Intelligent (Y.B.I.)” • 2016
Penny for your thoughts, a nickel for your dreams
A dime for your goals and a quarter in your jeans
Trying to make a dollar outta forty-one cents
Caught up in the barbed wire, shorty on the fence
– Masta Ace, “Young Black Intelligent (Y.B.I.),” The Falling Season, 2016
Jay-Z • “A Week Ago” • 1998
Funny what seven days can change…
It was all good just a week ago.
Jay-Z, “A Week Ago,” Vol. 2…Hard Knock Life, 1998
Dead Prez • “Hell Yeah (Pimp the System)” • 2004
I’m not the one to kiss ass for the top position,
I take mine off the top like a politician.
Where I’m from, doin dirt is a part of livin…
I got mouths to feed, I gots to get it.
– Dead Prez, “Hell Yeah (Pimp the System),” RBG: Revolutionary But Gangsta, 2004
Troy Ave • “Drug Game” • 2016
You can’t raise a man if you ain’t one yourself,
Getting all your cred from the gun on your belt.
– Troy Ave, “Drug Game,” Roland Collins, 2016
Jay-Z • American Dreamin • 2007
Survive the droughts? I wish you well.
How sick am I? I wish you health.
I wish you wheels, I wish you wealth,
I wish you insight so you could see for yourself.
– Jay-Z, “American Dreamin,” American Gangster, 2007
Jay-Z • “Izzo (H.O.V.A.)” • 2001
To try and to fail:
The two things I hate.
Succeed, and this rap game:
The two things that’s great.
– Jay-Z, “Izzo (H.O.V.A.),” The Blueprint, 2001.
Guru (Gang Starr) • “No Shame in My Game” • 1992
Life’s a bitch, who are we to judge each other?
I know I got faults, I ain’t the only muthafucka.
– Guru, “No Shame in my Game,” from Gang Starr’s Daily Operation, 1992
We live to love, and we love to rock mics.
We speak in ghetto tongue, cause ghetto’s the life.
Stay far from timid.
Only make moves when your heart is in it.
And live the phrase ‘Sky’s the Limit.’
She claims she loves my mind, cause I’m so intelligent,
But fuck my mental…she was scheming on my mint.
You know, I used to be a player…flygirl-layer and a heartbreaker,
Lovemaker, backbreaker, but then I made a mistake.
Yes, I fell in love with this ill chick,
Sweatin’ me for money, my name and the dilsnick.
My homeboys told me drop her cause it would be to my benefit;
She used to say I’d better quit hanging with those derelicts.
Rosa Parks sat so Martin Luther could walk,
Martin Luther walked so Barack Obama could run,
Barack Obama ran so all the children could fly…
So, I’mma spread my wings, you can meet me in the sky.
Smoke good, fuck, eat, drink.
Drive nice car, wear all green mink.
I wouldn’ta came and said my name and run some weak shit,
Puttin’ blurbs and slurs and words that don’t fit
In a rhyme, why waste time on the microphone?
I take this more serious than just a poem.
Rockin’ party to party, backyard to yard,
I tear it up y’all…and bless the mic for the Gods.
Now, yo: Juice Crew’s the family, Slick Rick’s a friend of me
And Doug E. Fresh, Stet, KRS and Public Enemy.
Blahzay-blah, you know who you are:
The red, black and green, the sun, moon and star.
Knowledge of self is being taught here on after,
Peace in the name of I, Self, Lord and Master.
I come to teach and preach and reaching each
With the speech every leech I’ll impeach.
Drop science and build with math,
And the dumb, deaf and blind’ll feel the Wrath…of Kane.
Got the new Hummer in the summer when,
I was a newcomer then,
Drugs and Mac-10s, hugs from fake friends.
Make ends: they hate you,
Be broke: girls won’t date you.
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.
Lyrically def and connecting, complete mic-wrecking…
No double-checking, vocals kill like weapons.
Never forget that I’m the one you thought wouldn’t make it.
I used to make money…now I just take it.
I know the price, know the risk, know the wrongs and the rights;
Still my blood flows ice…it’s just my life.
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.
I’m outspoken; my language is broken into a slang,
But it’s just a dialect that I select when I hang.