Saturday, November 6, 2010

“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.

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