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JUMP BACK | BE FORWARD

Damn, son, it's summertime, when the livin' is easy
But down where I live, I come breathless like Weezy
Ain't nothin' breezy here, not even the breezeway
So ease away when I speak, things break L.P.'s way
I got rats in the cellar and the rats got fleas
And the fleas got plague, and the plague's got me
So while those other brothers sin bad on the seven seas
I'm at home puttin' in work, tryin' to raise my fees
And I'm like rottin' with no future 'cause I shed no C's
And the 'P' is still free, but it's for O.P.P.
Society has left me with abnormal tendencies
So I will seize your crew like Caesar if you disrupt my steez
Because frankly, all your frontin's getting tedious
Your rhymes come slow and garbled like a BBS
Your hatin's got the lowest ratings outside TBS
And you're doing so much bitin' you need a D.D.S.
And while you're out consulting with the men in white coats
Have somebody check out your eyes, ears, nose and throat
'Cause you're blind to my style, and you're deaf to my rhymes
You can't smell how you stink and you choke all the time
The only bills that you carry are the Buffalo kind
You polish up your cheap brass buttons and say "watch how I shine"
But the only button I push when I hear you says 'eject'
You try to rhyme for pay but the machine just says 'reject'
You're tryin' for perfection but you just spelled out 'prefect'
You're the dogcatcher of hip-hop, I'm the governor-elect
There's not a thing you can perform amongst my official duties
My flow's like Chuck and Kris while yours is much more like Tootie's
And I got a special message comin' right at your rudies:
The only thing keepin' you hot is just your fat mama's booty

Comments

( 1 SHOT LICKED — LICK A SHOT )
fiberpunk
Aug. 15th, 2008 10:07 pm (UTC)
Script: flipped; dick: slipped; plus, your chick: stripped
She'd never seen a one-eyed stick so thick since Slick Rick
So sick. "Is that your schtick? A rappin' mick like Erik?"
"Man, House of Pain's more yesterday than Rocket from the Crypt."

Naw, it's true that I am white, and it's true I'm from the burbs
But hist'ry shows that if you fight me I will stomp you on the curb
Bring a jar for all your teeth and a bag for your entrails
My extispicy's extra spicy and I'll gut you like a quail

My skills pay my bills; they keep us chillin' in the hills
Jerkin' it to topless Africans is your job's only frill
So stay still: all this thrashing 'round is messing up your grill
Take this blanket for the chills; for the swelling: take these pills

It's time you headed home, son; you're looking like a dork
You can always give up rap and stick to emo from Pitchfork
While we're passin' round your momma 'fore we leave her in the trash
You're home statin' to Nate Patrin how you like electroclash
( 1 SHOT LICKED — LICK A SHOT )

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flavored with age
ludickid
Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator
Ludic Log

PROPRIETOR

Leonard Pierce is a freelance writer wandering around Texas with no sleep or sense of direction. If you give him money he will write something for you. If you are nice to him he may come to your house and get drunk.

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