“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!