Monday, November 15, 2010

OutKast “Rosa Parks”

“Rosa Parks” Chorus

Uh-huh, hush that fuss
Everybody move to the back of the bus
Do you wanna bump and slump with us?
We the type of people make the club get crunk
Yes sir! Hush that fuss!
Everyone, please move yourself to the rear of the vehicle—
Metaphorically, let my partner and I lead the way, as we are the most capable
(Also, move backward as if in ironic response to
The Montgomery Bus Boycott of 1955—begun by this song’s titular madam!).
Would you like to carouse and cavort with us?
We are the type of people who make nightclubs grow frenzied upon our arrival!

“Rosa Parks” Verse I

(Antwan André “Big Boi” Patton)

Many a day has passed, the night has gone by
But still I find the time to put that bump off in your eye
Total chaos, for these playas, thought we was absent
We takin another route to represent the Dungeon Family
Many a day has passed, and now, this evening has ended,
But still I find the time to trounce you with my wordplay!
It’s absolute chaos for these opponents who thought my partner and I were absent.
We are instead appearing as if from thin air,
Representing our Atlanta-based musical collective the Dungeon Family.
Like Great Day, me and my nigga decide to take the back way
We stabbing every city then we headed to that bat cave
A-T-L, Georgia, what do we do for ya?
Bulldoggin hoes like them Georgetown Hoyas
My crew compares to Arthur “Art Kane” Kanofsky’s 1958 photograph
A Great Day in Harlem, featuring 127 jazz greats.
My partner and I decide to arrive via circuitous means.
We will dominate emcees from any city in the continental United States,
And then escape back into the safety of our cavelike domiciles.
We are from Atlanta, Georgia. What might be able to do for you today?
We are simultaneously taking whores’ virtues,
As if the whores in question were English bulldogs
Like the mascot of the Georgetown University “Hoyas.”
Boy, you sounding silly, think my Brougham ain’t sittin pretty
Doing doughnuts ’round you suckas like them circles around titties
Damn, we the committee, gon’ burn it down
But us gon’ bust you in the mouth with the chorus now
Son, you are mentally addled to think 
My Cadillac Brougham automobile is not shining luxuriously!
I am driving in circles around you gulls—circles resembling areolas!
Damnation! We are as the committee, and what we say is “law!”
We are going to set this place alight!
Finally, we will clobber you in the jaw with the chorus now:

“Rosa Parks” Verse II

(André Lauren “André 3000” Benjamin)

I met a gypsy and she hipped me to some life game
To stimulate then activate the left and right brain

Said, “Baby boy, you
re only funky as your last cut
You focus on the past, your ass’ll be a has-what.”
I made the acquaintance of a Caucasoid nomad,
Who informed me about this game we call Life.
She informed both my rational and intuitive capacities.
Why, this bohemian told me, “Infant lad, you are only as novel as your last song.
If you concentrate only on your past, then your fame will be forgotten!”
That’s one to live by, or either thats one to die to
I try to just throw it at you, determine your own adventure
André got to her station, here’s my destination
She got off the bus, the conversation lingered in my head for hours
That is advice to live by—heed it not and suffer the end of your career!
I give you the best of my talents, lady; you may respond however you see fit.
I arrived at her bus stop—how I wish it were mine!
She departed the bus, leaving me to ponder our conversation.
Took a shower, kinda sour ’cause my favorite group ain’t comin with it
But I’m witchya ’cause you probably goin’ through it anyway
But anyhow, when in doubt, went on out and bought it
’Cause I thought it would be jammin’
I bathed, masturbating my thoughts to their physical conclusion.
I was feeling sour because my most-adored coterie was producing sub-par music.
However, I remain loyal to them as they’re likely suffering through trying times.
In any case, since I wasn’t aware of their new album’s level of quality,
I purchased it, for I thought it would be dulcet.
But examine all the flawsky, wawsky
Awfully, sad and it’s costly, but that’s all she wrote
And I hope I never have to float in that boat

Up Shit’s Creek, it’s weak as the last quote
But all I hear when I listen are the group’s many shortcomings.
It’s terribly sad and also costly, for they’ve lost my fandom,
And I don’t care to discuss it further.
I just hope I never have to join that group on their “sinking ship”!
They will be in dire straits—their music as insubstantial as any final farewell...
That I want to hear when I’m goin’ down, when all’s said and done
And we got a new Joe in town
When the record player get to skippin and slowin down
All y’all can say is them niggas earned them crown but until then
…I hear as I shuffle off this mortal coil and “drown”!
When everything has been said and done, and we have a new mayor in our town,
When the record player begins repeating itself and slowing down—
When all of this transpires, the only thing you all are left to say
Is that those African-American males (my partner and I)
Earned our status as the “kings” of hip hop! Until then, however…

Saturday, November 6, 2010

DMX “Party Up”

“Party Up” Chorus

Y’all gon’ make me lose my mind
Up in here, up in here
Y’all gon’ make me go all out
Up in here, up in here
All of you are going to make me as crazy as a Betsy Bug!
In this location, in this location.
You all are going to make me act wild as a peach-orchard boar!
In this very spot, in this very spot.
Y’all gon’ make me act a fool
Up in here, up in here
Y’all gon’ make me lose my cool
Up in here, up in here
All of you are going to force to act as a court’s very jester.
In this place, in this place.
You all are going to make me upset my composure!
Right in here, right in here.

“Party Up” Verse I

If I gotsa bring it to you cowards then it’s gonna be quick, aight?
All your mens up in the jail before, suck my dick
And all them other cats you run with get done with dumb quick
How the fuck you gonna cross The Dog with some bum shit? Aight
If I must do battle with your cowards, then I shall do so succinctly, understand?
To all your colleagues who were imprisoned alongside me,
You may fellate me!
And all of your other compatriots you carouse with
Will be dispatched with in ridiculously short order!
However do you propose to cross the highest order of canine—myself—
And to do so with actions befitting a common derelict?
There go the gun click, nine-one-one shit
All over some dumb shit. Ain’t that some shit?
Y’all niggas remind me of a strip club, ’cause every time
You come around, it’s like, what? I just gotta get my dick sucked
Oop! There resounds the sound of my handgun’s hammer clicking into place,
Which will result in a paramedic wheeling you away.
All of you African-American males belong to be
Stripteasing in an adult entertainment venue,
For every time you visit my neighborhood, I feel (“What?”) suddenly randy,
As if I must then receive fellatio!
—Such is the extent of your emasculation!
And I don’t know who the fuck you think you talkin to
But I’m not him, aight, slim? So watch what you do
Or you gon’ find yourself buried next to someone else
And we all thought you loved yourself
But whoever it is, I am not him. Do you understand, you emaciated man?
So please, consider carefully your actions, or you are
Going to find yourself buried illegally in a previously established gravesite.
And perhaps your family all thought you had an exemplary self-image,
Which makes it doubly perplexing as to why you’d war with me.
But that couldn’t have been the issue, or maybe
They just sayin that now ’cause they miss you
Shit, a nigga tried to dis you

That’s why you layin on your back, lookin at the roof of the church
Preacher tellin the truth and it hurts
—But perhaps they’re simply highlighting your best qualities
Because you have passed to the next life.
But tarnation, an African-American male attempted to reproach you,
Which is why you’re now on your back,
Your dead eyes cast upward to the ceiling of your house of worship.
The preacher at your open-casket funeral is telling the truth
—That you acted rashly and foolishly to fight with such a champion as I—
And that truth is painful for its accuracy.

“Party Up” Verse II

Off the chain, I leave niggas soft in the brain
’Cause niggas still want the fame, off the name
First of all, you ain’t rapped long enough
To be fuckin with me and you, you ain’t strong enough
I am a wild man who has been released!
I will pummel you so hard your brain matter will turn to pulp!
Too many up-and-coming African-American emcees
Want to be celebrated simply for arguing with me.
Firstly, young man, you have not rapped long enough
To be considered worthy of opposing,
And furthermore, you are simply too frail to quarrel.
So whatever it is you puffin on that got you thinkin that you Superman
I got the Kryptonite. Should I smack him with my dick and the mic
?
Y’all niggas is characters, not even good actors
What’s gon’ be the outcome? Hmm, let’s add up all the factors
Whatever variety of marijuana cigarette you’re inhaling that has you believing
That you’re Detective Comics Entertainment, Inc. superhero Superman,
I have the Kryptonite to match your powers!
Dear audience, should I spank this lowly imitator with
Both my penis and the microphone, doubly humiliating him?
All of you African-Americans are as amusing as characters,
Though you’re unaccomplished actors!
(You play poorly the part of the battle-ready emcee!)
So, what will be the outcome of all this difficulty? Well, let me enumerate your flaws:
You wack, you’re twisted, your girl’s a hoe
You broke, the kid ain’t yours, and everybody know

Your old man say you stupid, you be like, “So?
I love my baby mother, I never let her go”
You rap poorly, you have a confused sense of self, your ladyfriend cuckolds you,
You have no money, the child you and your ladyfriend had is not of your loins,
And everyone knows of these deficiencies in your character!
Even your father admits that you’re a dunce, to which you respond, “What of it?
I love the mother of ‘my’ child; despite her infidelity, I remain with her.”
I’m tired of weak-ass niggas whinin over puss
That don’t belong to them—fuck is wrong with them?
They fuck it up for real niggas like my mans and them
Who get it on on the strength of the hands with them, man
I grow weary of weak-kneed African-American men
Who pule about slatterns who don’t intercourse them exclusively.
What on Earth is amiss with these men?!
They sully this postmodern mating game by corralling independent chippies
Whom my men and I, true African-American males, could entertain.
My men and I intercourse such women simply on the strength
Of our forthrightness and laissez faire, sir.

“Party Up” Verse III

I bring down rains so heavy it curse the head
No more talkin—put him in the dirt instead
You keep walkin—unless you tryin to end up red
’Cause if I end up fed, y’all end up dead
I, like mighty Zeus Ombrios, can make it rain at my whim
—Rains so heavy they’ll seem to curse the heads of those they fall upon,
(Reversing the classic image of man cursing rain falling upon his head
Presented by Italian poet and courtier Giambatistta Basile).
He and I shall not talk any longer—instead, he will be killed and interred in the earth.
Continue to walk away, weak one! Unless you’re trying to finish up bloodied!
Because if I end up seeing red, all of you will up deceased!
’Cause you’s a soft-type nigga
Fake Up North–type nigga
Puss like a soft white nigga
Dog is a dog, blood’s thicker than water
We done been through the mud and we quicker to slaughter
For you are a craven African-American male,
An African-American male whose jail credentials—
Being as they are from the Up North district of New York City—are patently false.
You are a kitten; you are like a lily-livered, fraudulent
Caucasian merely acting as an African-American.
My doglike friends are true friends;
Our fraternal bonds run deep, unlike your fair-weather acquaintance.
My friends and I have been through trying times
And we respond more quickly and violently to provocation.
The bigger the order, the more guns we brought out
We run up in there, e’rybody come out, don’t nobody run out
Sun in to sun out, I’m-a keep the gun out
Nigga runnin his mouth? I’m-a blow his lung out
The larger the skirmish, the more firearms we arrive with.
When we attack a location, everyone comes out—
Dead, that is! No one escapes our wrath!
From sunup to sundown, my handgun remains exposed.
Is there an African-American male in the vicinity fomenting discord?
I will fire my handgun at him and eviscerate his very lung!
Listen! Yo’ ass is about to be missin
You know who gon’ find you? (Who?) Some old man fishin
Grandma wishin your soul’s at rest
But it’s hard to digest with the size of the hole in your chest
Listen to me! Your hind end is about to be missing.
Do you know who is going to find you? (“Who?,” you may ask.)
And the answer is that an elderly man out fishing will,
For your body will be chum at the bottom of a body of water!
Your grandmother will wish, upon hearing this news, that your soul is at rest.
But such news is difficult to fathom after having viewed your grisly corpus!