Earl Sweatshirt – “Chum” (2013)

Something sinister to it, pendulum swinging slow
A degenerate moving through the city with criminals, stealth
Welcome to enemy turf, harder than immigrants work
“Golf” is stitched into my shirt
Get up off the pavement, brush the dirt up off my psyche (psyche, psyche)

It’s probably been twelve years since my father left, left me fatherless
And I just used to say I hate him in dishonest jest
When honestly I miss this nigga, like when I was six
And every time I got the chance to say it I would swallow it
Sixteen, I’m hollow, intolerant, skip shots
I storm that whole bottle, I’ll show you a role model
I’m drunk, pissy, pissing on somebody front lawn
Trying to figure out how and when the fuck I missed moderate
Momma often was offering peace offerings
Think, wheeze cough, scoffing and he’s off again
Searching for a big brother, Tyler was that
And plus he liked how I rap, the blunted mice in the trap
Too black for the white kids, and too white for the blacks
From honor roll to cracking locks up off them bicycle racks
I’m indecisive, I’m scatterbrained, and I’m frightened, it’s evident
And them eyes where he hiding all them icicles at

Uh… time lapse, bars rotten, heart’s bottomless pit
Was mobbin’ deep as ‘96 Havoc and Prodigy did
We were the pottymouth posse crash the party and dip
With all belongings then toss em out to the audience
Nothing was fucking awesome, trying to make it from the bottom of Syd’s
Feeling as hard as Vince Carter’s knee cartilage is
Supreme garment and weed gardeners garnishing spliffs
With Keef particles and entering apartments with ‘zine article
Tolerance for boundaries, I know you happy now
Craven and these Complex fuck niggas done track me down
Just to be the guys that did it, like, “I like attention”
Not the type where niggas trying to get a raise at my expense
Supposed to be grateful, right? Like, “Thanks so much, you made my life
Harder, and the ties between my mom and I are strained and tightened
Even more than they were before all of this shit”
Been back a week and I already feel like calling it quits.

Kendrick Lamar – “Feel”

Ain’t nobody prayin’ for me (X4)

I feel like a chip on my shoulders
I feel like I’m losin’ my focus
I feel like I’m losin’ my patience
I feel like my thoughts in the basement
Feel like, I feel like you’re miseducated
Feel like I don’t wanna be bothered
I feel like you may be the problem
I feel like it ain’t no tomorrow, fuck the world
The world is endin’, I’m done pretendin’
And fuck you if you get offended
I feel like friends been overrated
I feel like the family been fakin’
I feel like the feelings are changin’
Feel like my thought of compromise is jaded
Feel like you wanna scrutinize how I made it
Feel like I ain’t feelin’ you all
Feel like removin’ myself, no feelings involved
I feel for you, I’ve been in the field for you
It’s real for you, right? Shit, I feel like—

Ain’t nobody prayin’ for me (X4)

I feel niggas been out of pocket
I feel niggas tappin’ they pockets
I feel like debatin’ on who the greatest can stop it
I am legend, I feel like all of y’all is peasants
I feel like all of y’all is desperate
I feel like all it take is a second to feel like
Mike Jordan whenever holdin’ a real mic
I ain’t feelin’ your presence
Feel like I’ma learn you a lesson
Feel like only me and the music, though
I feel like your feelin’ ain’t mutual
I feel like the enemy you should know
Feel like the feelin’ of no hope
The feelin’ of bad dope
A quarter ounce manipulated from soap
The feelin’, the feelin’ of false freedom
I’ll force-feed ’em the poison that fill ’em up in the prison
I feel like it’s just me
Look, I feel like I can’t breathe
Look, I feel like I can’t sleep
Look, I feel heartless, often off this
Feelin’ of fallin’, of fallin’ apart with
Darkest hours, lost it
Fillin’ the void of bein’ employed with ballin’
Streets is talkin’, fill in the blanks with coffins
Fill up the banks with dollars
Fill up the graves with fathers
Fill up the babies with bullshit
Internet blogs and pulpit, fill ’em with gossip
I feel like this gotta be the feelin’ what ‘Pac was
The feelin’ of an apocalypse happenin’
But nothin’ is awkward, the feelin’ won’t prosper
The feelin’ is toxic, I feel like I’m boxin’ demons
Monsters, false prophets schemin’
Sponsors, industry promises
Niggas, bitches, honkies, crackers, Compton
Church, religion, token blacks in bondage
Lawsuit visits, subpoena served in concert
Fuck your feelings, I mean this for imposters
I can feel it, the phoenix sure to watch us
I can feel it, the dream is more than process
I can put a regime that forms a Loch Ness
I can feel it, the scream that haunts our logic
I feel like say somethin’, I feel like take somethin’
I feel like skatin’ off, I feel like waitin’ for ’em
Maybe it’s too late for ’em
I feel like the whole world want me to pray for ’em
But who the fuck prayin’ for me?

Ain’t nobody prayin’ for me
Who prayin’ for me?
Ain’t nobody prayin’

John Berryman – “Of Suicide” (1971)

Reflexions on suicide, & on my father, possess me.
I drink too much. My wife threatens separation.
She won’t ‘nurse’ me. She feels ‘inadequate’.
We don’t mix together.

It’s an hour later in the East.
I could call up Mother in Washington, D.C.
But could she help me?
And all this postal adulation & reproach?

A basis rock-like of love & friendship
for all this world-wide madness seems to be needed.
Epictetus is in some ways my favorite philosopher.
Happy men have died earlier.

I still plan to go to Mexico this summer.
The Olmec images! Chichén Itzá!
D. H. Lawrence has a wild dream of it.
Malcolm Lowry’ s book when it came out I taught to my precept at Princeton.

I don’t entirely resign. I may teach the Third Gospel
this afternoon. I haven’t made up my mind.
It seems to me sometimes that others have easier jobs
& do them worse.

Well, we must labor & dream. Gogol was impotent,
somebody in Pittsburgh told me.
I said: At what age? They couldn’t answer.
That is a damned serious matter.

Rembrandt was sober. There we differ. Sober.
Terrors came on him. To us too they come.
Of suicide I continually think.
Apparently he didn’t. I’ll teach Luke.

Jean Grae – “# 8” (2008)

[Edgar Allen Floe]

What up, Jean? You know there’s a lot of nonsense in the streets right now, you see it right? Tell ‘em whats up…

[Jean Grae]

Possibly I could, dropping some knowledge I should,
But I ain’t finish college and I’m not a Kanye, got it? Good.
Intelligent rhetoric, brain packed like a tenement.
Aimed back at the tenants, my face crack in a venomous rage.
I really wanna blaze all you, burn you like 8 whores do.
Hurl you like Florida storm furniture.
Permanent marker: Jean is tagging blacking up on your partner’s penis.
Pardon the phoenix I mark you plus I bark the meanest.
Hardly elitist, I know the struggle.
I mostly bubble underground like a soda below some broken rubble.
At ground zero, I get down, nigga, like them brown people.
Saturday Night just waiting Sonny Cheeba, lift ya.
I’ll levitate the scriptures just so I can see ‘em better.
Each and every letter was conceived by Jean. I’m the Coretta
Scott King of my day I mean, standing by my mate, my king,
Planning for Jamaica honeymooning, vacationing,
CD breaking in, skipping on this track like I’ve been scraping it
Scraping it, scraping it, bring it back.
Sicker than rap. I’ll stick you with a picket axe
Pick up your soul and then control it. What’s bigger than that?
You don’t like the way I flow? “She needs more emotion”? No,
I’ll give you emotion: it’s you holding your broken nose,
And leave you comatose with a pound of Columbia snow
At your side when the cops arrive, they’ll just say you overdosed.
This ain’t a battle. I would make your cranium rattle,
Skull in pain as if a hundred veins had popped a dangerous madam.
The Heidi Fleiss of words, like a verse, find a purse.
I could make you love me; if you fuck with me, violence occurs.
New York pimp game. The worst chick since the birth of the words.
That I first met on a Thursday. I think I’m cursed
Don’t blink niggas, cause I will figure
A way to kill you in a second with my ring finger.
Think quicker, my visions multiplied like liquor drinkers
I kick your sister ‘til she’s crippled making you step with her,
Cause I could mark you too, show you what a dart could do
When your aorta’s the target, nigga. Pardon you…

Remy Ma – “Conceited”

See this ain’t nothin that you used to
Out of the ordinary and unusual
You gotta have the mind state like I’m so great
And can’t nobody do it like you do
Miraculous, phenomenal
And ain’t nobody in here stoppin’ you
Show no love, cause you’s wassup
Look in the mirror, like what the fuck
Damn, I look good
And can’t nobody freak it like I could
Yeah, okay, I got a little fat but
My shorty tell me he like it like that
I’m happy, another me there never can be
See, I’m so outstanding
Don’t care if they can’t stand me
I’m sittin on top of the world like Brandy

See I look too good for this necklace
And I look too good to be wearin’ this
You know I look way too good to be innocent
I’m conceited, I got a reason
See I look too good to be drivin’ that
And I look too good to be buyin’ that
You know I look way too good to be tryin’ that
I’m conceited, I got a reason

Now who’s that peekin’ in my window
Nobody cause I live in a penthouse
Baby I’m sorry, but I’m sexy
And all I want you to do is just bless me, let’s see
This kid that I’m waitin’ on
He said he love when my jeans look painted on
With this tight white tee, you ain’t quite like me
Probably why I’m always gettin’ hitted on
Now shorty tryin’ to push up on me like a wonder bra
Listen when I speak, I wouldn’t want you to take it wrong
Now, number one, I don’t need you
Your name’s Q, I only see “u” when I see you
Listen, two, you could never play me (why’s that)
Cuz I’m such a fuckin’ lady
Three, it’s all about me
I don’t wanna talk about it
If you’d like to hear it, here it go
I wrote a song about it

See I look too good to be fuckin’ you
And I look too good to be lovin’ you
You know I look way too good to be stuck with you
I’m conceited, I got a reason
See I look too good to be gettin whipped
And I look too good to be havin’ kids
You know I look way too good to be in a crib
I’m conceited, I got a reason

Oh, I know what I’m doin’
I can’t stop my body from movin’
I’m boppin’ and poppin’ to the music
He keeps watchin’ me and he’s about to lose it
I’m droppin’ it hotter then the ?????
“Face Down, Ass Up,” on some Luke shit
I’m outta control wit it, dip it low, pick it up slow
Poke it out, now roll wit it
My thong showin’, but it’s cool, my shoes go wit’ it
Now all I need is a room wit a pole in it
See I look good and I’m knowin’ it
And I was never too proud to be showin’ it

Jay-Z – “Takeover” (2001)

R.O.C., we running this rap shit
Memphis Bleek, we running this rap shit
B. Mac, we running this rap shit
Freeway, we run this rap shit
O & Sparks, we running this rap shit
Chris & Neef, we running this rap shit

The takeover, the break’s over, nigga
God MC – me – Jay-hova
Hey lil soldier, you ain’t ready for war
R.O.C. too strong for y’all
It’s like bringing a knife to a gunfight, pen to a test
Your chest in the line of fire with your thin-ass vest
You bringing them boys to men, how them boys gonna win?
This is grown man B.I., get you rolled into triage, bi-atch
Your reach ain’t long enough, dunny
Your peeps ain’t strong enough, fucker
Roc-A-Fella is the army, better yet the navy
Niggas’ll kidnap your babies, spit at your lady
We bring knife to fistfight, kill your drama
We kill you motherfucking ants with a sledgehammer
Don’t let me do it to you, dunny, cause I overdo it
So you won’t confuse it with “just rap music”

R.O.C., we running this rap shit
M Easy, we running this rap shit
The Broadstreet Bully we running this rap shit
Get zipped up in plastic when it happens that’s it
Freeway, we running this rap shit
O & Sparks, we running this rap shit
Chris & Neef, we running this rap shit
(“Watch out!! We run New York”)

I don’t care if you Mobb Deep, I hold triggers to crews
You little fuck, I got money stacks bigger than you
When I was pushing weight, back in ‘88
You was a ballerina, I got the pictures, I seen ya
Then you dropped “Shook Ones,” switched your demeanour
Well, we don’t believe you, you need more people
Roc-A-Fella, students of the game, we passed the class cause
Nobody can read you dudes like we do
Don’t let em gas you, like “Jigga is ass and won’t clap you”
Trust me on this one, I’ll detach you
Mind from spirit, body from soul
They’ll have to hold a mass, put your body in a hole
No, you’re not on my level get your brakes tweaked
I sold what your whole album sold in my first week
You guys don’t want it with Hov
Ask Nas, he don’t want it with Hov, no!

I know you missing Nas the (fame)
But along with celebrity comes about 70 shots to your frame, nigga
You a (lame)
You’s the fag model for Karl Kani, Esco ads
Went from Nasty Nas to Esco’s trash
Had a spark when you started but now you’re just garbage
Fell from “top 10” to “not mentioned at all”
To your bodyguard’s “Oochie Wally”’s verse better than yours
Matter of fact you had the worst flow on the whole fucking song
But I know: the sun don’t shine, then son don’t shine
That’s why your (lame) career’s come to an end
It’s only so long fake thugs can pretend
Nigga, you ain’t live it
You witnessed it from your folks’ pad
You scribbled it in your notepad and created your life
I showed you your first TEC (me!), on tour with Large Professor
Then I heard your album about your TEC on the dresser
So yeah, I sampled your voice, you was using it wrong
You made it a hot line, I made it a hot song
And you ain’t get a coin, nigga, you was getting fucked then
I know who I paid, God – Serchlite publishing
Use your (brain)
You said you’ve been in this 10, I’ve been in it 5 – smarten up, Nas
4 albums in 10 years, nigga? I could divide
That’s one every…let’s say 2
2 of them shits was due
1 was “nah,” the other was Illmatic
That’s a one-hot-album-every-10-year average
And that’s so (lame)
Nigga, switch up your flow
Your shit is garbage
What you trying to kick, knowledge?
You niggas gonna learn to respect the king
Don’t be the next contestant on that Summer Jam screen
Because you-know-who did you-know-what with you-know-who
But let’s keep that between me and you (for now)

A wise man told me don’t argue with fools
Cause people from a distance can’t tell who is who
So stop with that childish shit, nigga I’m grown
Please leave it alone – don’t throw rocks at the throne
Do not bark up that tree, that tree will fall on you
I don’t know why your advisers ain’t forewarn you
Please, not Jay, he’s not for play
I don’t slack a minute, all that thug rapping and gimmicks
I will end it, all that yapping be finished
You are not deep, you made your bed now sleep
Don’t make me expose you to them folks that don’t know you
Nigga I know you well, all the stolen jew-els
Twinkletoes, you’re breaking my heart
You can’t fuck with me – go play somewhere, I’m busy
And all you other cats throwing shots at Jigga
You only get half a bar – fuck y’all niggas

Nas – “Ether” (2001)

Fuck Jay Z!
(What’s up niggas, ayo, I know you ain’t talking ‘bout me, dog, you? what?)
Fuck Jay Z!
(You been on my dick nigga, you love my style, nigga)
Fuck Jay Z!

[Hook]
(I) Fuck with your soul like ether
(Will) Teach you – the king – you know you
(Not) God’s Son across the belly
(Lose) I prove you lost already

Brace yourself for the main event
Y’all impatiently waiting
It’s like an AIDS test
What’s the results, not positive
Who’s the best, Pac, Nas and B.I.G
Ain’t no best – East, West, North, South, flossed out, greedy
I embrace y’all with napalm
Blows up, no guts left, chest/face gone
How could Nas be garbage?
Semi-autos at your cartilage
Burner at the side of your dome
Come out of my throne
I got this locked since 9-1
I am the truest
Name a rapper that I ain’t influenced
Gave y’all chapters but now I keep my eyes on the Judas
With Hawaiian Sophie fame, kept my name in his music

Ayo, pass me the weed, put my ashes out on these niggas, man!
Ayo, you faggots, y’all kneel and kiss the mothafuckin’ ring!

I’ve been fucked over, left for dead, dissed and forgotten
Luck ran out, they hoped that I’d be gone, stiff and rotten
Y’all just piss on me, shit on me, spit on my grave
Talk about me, laugh behind my back but in my face
Y’all some well wishers, friendly acting, envy hiding snakes
With your hands out for my money, man, how much can I take
When these streets keep calling, heard it when I was sleep
That this Gay-Z and Cock-a-Fella Records wanted beef
Started cocking up my weapon, slowly loading up this ammo
To explode it on a camel and his soldiers
I can handle this for dolo and his manuscript just sound stupid
When KRS already made an album called Blueprint
First Biggie’s your man, then you got the nerve to say
That you better than B.I.G, dick-sucking lips
Why don’t you let the late, great veteran live?

I… will… not… lose
God’s son across the belly, I prove you lost already
The king is back, where my crown at
Ill Will rest in peace, let’s do it niggas

Y’all niggas deal with emotions like bitches
What’s sad is I love you cause you’re my brother
You traded your soul for riches
My child, I’ve watched you grow up to be famous
And now I smile like a proud dad watchin’ his only son that made it
You seem to be only concerned with dissing women
Were you abused as a child? Scared to smile? They called you ugly?
Well life is harsh; hug me, don’t reject me
Or make records to disrespect me, blatant or indirectly
In ‘88 you was getting chased through your building
Callin’ my crib and I ain’t even give you my numbers
All I did was give you a style for you to run with
Smiling in my face, glad to break bread with the God
Wearing Jaz chains, no Tecs, no cash, no cars
No jail bars Jigga, no pies, no case
Just Hawaiian shirts, hanging with little Chase
You a fan, a phony, a fake, a pussy, a Stan
I still whip your ass; You thirty-six in a karate class?
You Tae-Bo ho, tryna work it out, you tryna get brolic?
Ask me if I’m tryna kick knowledge?
Nah, I’m tryna kick the shit you need to learn though
That ether, that shit that make your soul burn slow
Is he Dame Diddy, Dame Daddy or Dame Dummy?
Oh, I get it, you Biggie and he’s Puffy
Rocafella died of AIDS, that was the end of his chapter
And that’s the guy y’all chose to name your company after?
Put it together, I rock hoes, y’all rock fellas
And now y’all try to take my spot, fellas
Feel these hot rocks fellas, put you in a dry spot, fellas
In a pine box with nine shots from my Glock, fellas
Foxy got you hot, cause you kept your face in her puss
What you think, you getting girls now cause of your looks
Ne-gro please, you no mustache having
With whiskers like a rat, compared to Beans you whack
And your man stabbed Un and made you take the blame
You ass, went from Jaz to hanging with Kane, to Irv, to B.I.G
And Eminem murdered you on your own shit
You a dick-riding faggot, you love the attention
Queens niggas run you niggas, ask Russell Simmons, ha

R-O-C get gunned up and clapped quick
J.J. Evans get gunned up and clapped quick
Your whole damn record label gunned up and clapped quick
Shawn Carter to Jay-Z – damn, you on Jaz dick!
So little shorty’s getting gunned up and clapped quick
How much of Biggie’s rhymes is gonna come out your fat lips?
Wanted to be on every last one of my classics
You pop shit, apologize, nigga, just ask Kiss

Anonymous – “Shine and the Titanic” (early 20th cent.)

It was a hell of a day in the merry month of May
When the great Titanic was sailing away.
The captain and his daughter was there, too,
And old black Shine, he didn’t need no crew.
Shine was downstairs eating his peas
When the motherfucking water come up to his knees.
He said, “Captain, Captain, I was downstairs eating my peas
When the water come up to my knees.”
He said, “Shine, Shine, set your black ass down.
I got ninety-nine pumps to pump the water down.”
Shine went downstairs looking through space.
That’s when the water came up to his waist.
He said, “Captain, Captain, I was downstairs looking through space,
That’s when the water came up to my waist.”
He said, “Shine, Shine, set your black ass down.
I got ninety-nine pumps to pump the water down.”
Shine went downstairs, he ate a piece of bread.
That’s when the water came above his head.
He said, “Captain, Captain, I was downstairs eating my bread
And the motherfucking water came above my head.”
He said, “Shine, Shine, set your black ass down.
I got ninety-nine pumps to pump the water down.”
Shine took off his shirt, took a dive. He took one stroke
And the water pushed him like it pushed a motorboat.
The Captain said, “Shine, Shine, save poor me.
I’ll give you more money than any black man see.”
Shine said, “Money is good on land or sea.
Take off your shirt and swim like me.”
That’s when the Captain’s daughter came on deck;
Hands on her pussy, and the drawers ‘round her neck.
Says, “Shine, Shine, save poor me,
Give you more pussy than any black man see.”
Shine said, “Pussy ain’t nothing but meat on the bone,
You may fuck it or suck it or leave it alone.
I like cheese but I ain’t no rat.
I like pussy, but not like that.”
And Shine swum on.
He said, “I hope you meet up with the whale.”
Old Shine he swim might fine.
Shine met up with the whale.
The whale said, “Shine, Shine, you swim mighty fine,
But if you miss one stroke, your black ass is mine.”
Shine said, “You may be king of the ocean, king of the sea,
But you got to be a swimming motherfucker to outswim me.”
And Shine swim on.
Now when the news got to the port, the great Titanic has sunk,
You won’t believe this, but old Shine was on the corner, damn near drunk.