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Oh, yes, it is decidedly THAT TIME AGAIN.

Come on, MCs! We’re off to the races
Grab ya mics, let’s get down to cases
I don’t know ya names, I ain’t seen ya faces
Step to me, I’m fat like laces
Y’all better stay in my good graces
I’ma put you through your paces
I’ma put you all in stasis
With escape-proof snares and need-to-know basses
My rep grew while yours done shrunk
Your DJ name is LP’s Punk
While you’re in club all tryin’ to get crunk
All the girls at my crib all waitin’ to get drunk
Ya never get phat ‘cept in ya girlfriend’s junk
So I took her back home and popped that trunk
And when she asked about the history of this howlin’ monk
I said “’69, white boy born with funk”
Old-school reminsicin’ from a distant era
Targeted for rhymin’ in the war on terror
Rockin’ ya belles like my name was Clara
And eatin’ out ya honey like I’m Yogi Berra
Strokin’ like George Michael played by Michael Cera
Knockin’ niggas nightly like my name was Kiera
Ya know ya mirror’s answer when you ask who’s fairer
You come into my full house when you only hold a pair a’
Aces in ya hand, you know it’s time to fold
You can’t keep up with me, if I might be so bold
I’m makin’ crazy hookups while ya stuck on hold
Ya just a dirty copper while I’m shippin’ gold
I doubled up the tempo while you got Rickrolled
They told you to STFU while I just LOL’d
I wish I’d seen ya mama’s face when her ass got told
That you got sonned by someone thirty-fuckin’-nine years old.


May. 19th, 2009 04:17 pm (UTC)
Check it:
It's the mad baller what balls at midnight
The mutant MC: Nightcrawler plus Dolemite
Locked down my game until it's tighter than airtight
Rolling challengers like it's Fight Night
Watch your ass get lit up while I fire my tracers
I been spittin' sharp verses since I wore braces
Leave you in the wrong lane, like them Ronin chases
Stay at home in your trailer - stuff your face with quesa-
Dillas, because my nine-milla's impatience
Could shorten your life by a couple of phrases
My mixtape's heard in all the right places
You? You just a has-been. Fuck what Dre says.
You just a punkin' George Michael - WHAM! goes my nine
Watch that jitterbug seizure lace up your spine
Quake with fear, 'till you're ankle-wearing pants again
No chance to win - he never gonna dance again.
All these careless whispers calling you successful
In the three venues that're wheelchair-access'ble
Try to claw your way out from the MC cesspool
It's stressful, every time I have to test fools ...
Nah, this shit's easy man; it ain't no hassle
Do a drive-by on your retirement castle
While you gumming up your Salisbury steak and apple-
sauce, I'm getting sauced with Elizabeth Hassle-
beck, and my TEC is shooting a fiery mass o'
Bullets into your knees, tearing holes in the tassled
Rug, and catching fire, so the nurses wrassle
You down to the carpet, and you burn your asshole.
You's a corny-ass cousin, like a Niles to Frasier
I'm spitting sick verses guaranteed to amaze ya
You's a tired old punk who opened for Fantasia
The poster child argument for euthanasia.

May. 19th, 2009 05:21 pm (UTC)
Ya stickin’ to my rhythms, burn you off like a tick
When you hear my ultra sound you won’t be able to kick
The Bruce Lee of this picture while ya jaw weak like Cooney
When ya hear the rhymes I’m droppin’, you say “Gee!” just like Spoonie
You coke-smokin’ joker with your head full of kill
You’ll be ODin’ like a peon while I’m coutnin’ my scrill
Now that means cheddar, or the mayo, or my cash, if you will
What I mean is you ain’t seen it and you can’t pay ya bills
Agents ringin’ while I’m singin’, try to offer protection
Only agents that you hear from are the ones from collections
I bring ladies to the stage and I don’t have to rehearse
You get ya money from ya honey on the 15th and 1st
I got a box labeled “Punk-Ass”, keep your rhymes on the shelf there
Ya raps are like ya cheese, they come from government welfare
You like Dolemite? That’s right -- like Rudy Ray, you be late
You like Nightcrawler? That’s right -- ‘cause you the worms in my bait

I’m steel-hard like Tonka, while you strictly Hasbro
I’m swarmin’ like Foreman, while you strictly Glass Joe
Ya say ya young and hard, but I ain’t feelin’ ya fervor
I’m chewin’ on ya crew while you is still straight-up Gerber’s
Equipped with a nine, but it jam on the first shot
I ruffneck ya, bobo, nah madda ya bloodclot
I cool in Jamaica while you sweatshop in Queens
Ya rhyme so weak that when you speak you get replaced by machines
I gotcha shook, I look to put a hole in ya chest
Ya rockin’ Tommies ‘cause you can’t afford a bulletproof vest
But it don’t matter — when I scatter, I’ma go for the headshot
Make your ass the Human Target when I’m aimin’ like Deadshot
Ya braggin’ ‘bout the babies that ya gonna be boffin’
But all ya really gonna do is weigh down a coffin
Between you and me, I don’t think ya future’s in rhymin’
Squarer than a Rubik’s Cube and twice as simple as Simon.
May. 19th, 2009 05:34 pm (UTC)
Electric sports bra,
Electric sports bra!
Baby won't jiggle around!
Wearin it all over town.

May. 19th, 2009 05:59 pm (UTC)
May. 19th, 2009 07:50 pm (UTC)
I'm not so funky and I'm nerdy too
But I still got game at a young thirty-two
I'll step up here 'cause I got the day off
Chillin at home after a week in the Trops
The Isle of Jamaica was where I went
But my introvert stylin left me totally spent
Sandals Resort had cried out "Enough!"
Cause I hit em hard like I was Aubrey Huff
My all-inclusive package meant golf, booze, and food
All in my way were left dead where they stood
Now I'm not the type to dig a crib like Sandals
It's for fifty year old boys to tear shit up like vandals
If you think Chili's and Sbarro are everything hot
You'd like it just as much as Mr. Michael Scott
But it was all good and my sister got hitched
And only a few bodies ended up in the ditch
I had to take a few punks down
When they tried to take my shuffleboard crown.
May. 19th, 2009 09:05 pm (UTC)
I got no skills, I got no talent
In the Highlights game of hip-hop I am Goofus to your Gallant
But I'm in here anyway, rhymes askew and scansion fucked
Got no doubt you'll squish my head like an eighteen-wheeler truck
But this all brings a question which I wonder if you thought of
That if I announce how bad I suck, I kind of take your wheels off
'Cause your whole game is your trash talk, and if I go "Well, of course"
Then you got nowhere to go, you're stumbling off like a lame horse
When it comes to self-insulting, ain't no one can take me down
So step aside, 'cause I have grabbed the Lame-Ass Loophole crown


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


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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