The MC against the Rapper
Posted: Sun Jul 04, 2010 9:28 pm
You got the conscious brother, who can quote from Malcolm X to L. Ron Hubbard/
Whose raps pack less violence than American Idol’s Ruben Studdard/
He ain’t fucking with roughneck rawhide, he’d rather go for some Pharcyde/
Wearing glasses so the hood clowns him and calls him four-eyes/
The kid does his own thing and keeps his hair more activator-free than Don King/
Wearing dreads or Afros alone in his despair, calling thuggish brothers zombies/
Wants to be a Zulu warrior but works as a Manhattan bicycle courier/
One day someone hands him a flier for a brand new rhyming tournament/
Meanwhile in Queens there’s the dude who will stop your breathing in a minute/
A real killer molded in Young Jeezy’s spitting image/
He’d rather sell bars, gravitate to the track and abdicate from this trap/
But the reality is nothing but coke out here is paying him jack/
He sells vials of freebase in public tenements, paying with weed for studio time when he can get it kid/
Posted on blocks and when he ain’t serving fiends writing endlessly/
One day he’ll write his way out the nightmare with this pen and ink/
That is if he don’t get killed first by fake friends or real enemies
It’s lab time for both, Manhattan pen stabbing, chicken-scratching in Staten/
Both rubbing the lamp to make it happen with that lyrical Aladdin/
The courier cat drops lines like imperial acrobatics/
The thug drops those dope game mathematics facts
Both show up to the club feeling fly but getting them butterflies/
Catch each others’ eyes in the hallways and realize it’s do or die/
The time comes for that open title recital between rivals.
You know what happened next? Guess what? I do.
Whose raps pack less violence than American Idol’s Ruben Studdard/
He ain’t fucking with roughneck rawhide, he’d rather go for some Pharcyde/
Wearing glasses so the hood clowns him and calls him four-eyes/
The kid does his own thing and keeps his hair more activator-free than Don King/
Wearing dreads or Afros alone in his despair, calling thuggish brothers zombies/
Wants to be a Zulu warrior but works as a Manhattan bicycle courier/
One day someone hands him a flier for a brand new rhyming tournament/
Meanwhile in Queens there’s the dude who will stop your breathing in a minute/
A real killer molded in Young Jeezy’s spitting image/
He’d rather sell bars, gravitate to the track and abdicate from this trap/
But the reality is nothing but coke out here is paying him jack/
He sells vials of freebase in public tenements, paying with weed for studio time when he can get it kid/
Posted on blocks and when he ain’t serving fiends writing endlessly/
One day he’ll write his way out the nightmare with this pen and ink/
That is if he don’t get killed first by fake friends or real enemies
It’s lab time for both, Manhattan pen stabbing, chicken-scratching in Staten/
Both rubbing the lamp to make it happen with that lyrical Aladdin/
The courier cat drops lines like imperial acrobatics/
The thug drops those dope game mathematics facts
Both show up to the club feeling fly but getting them butterflies/
Catch each others’ eyes in the hallways and realize it’s do or die/
The time comes for that open title recital between rivals.
You know what happened next? Guess what? I do.