Sunday, December 7, 2008

Sunday 07

Today was kind of a weird day...I went to volunteer at Puget Creek Restoration Society's downtown office. I was supposed to do field restoration, but you know, it's December. I got back home at around 230 in the afternoon and Robert was still sleeping. Not too unusual, so I went and took a nap too. I was pretty confused when I woke up, since it was an ambiguous 430 and dark outside. Ok, not too weird, but Robert didn't wake up until almost 6. A good 13 hours of sleep for him.

I should be doing a lot of homeworks right now, but my most imminent worry was given an extension without me even asking. No worries, I'll get to the little things sometime tonight. Now is show and tell time. Here's a poem I saw on Russel Simmons Def Poetry sometime in highschool. The first stanza is my favorite.

the rapper all lyrics written by Sekou (tha misfit)

I’m so f--kin’ rich I feel ill,
I got about a hundred mil in “dollar, dollar bills”
I got cream, I got scrill, I got Benjies, I got a hot record deal
I got a house up on the hill - yo, I’m for real!
I got a mansion and a Porsche, and a thorough-bred horse
And my own golf course and … what else… a Bentley, of course
And a Ferrari - naw f--k it, I got a Ferrari dealership
I’m so rich I bought my own jail for fools that steal my sh-t
I’m so paid I’ll buy your father Rolexes, your mom’s diamond necklaces,
And your girl Lexus-es
I’ll buy every female on your mom’s side of the family fake breast-eses
I’ll buy a whole IHOP just to eat two breakfast-ses
I’ll buy a Benz for my girl, Beamers for all my exes-es
And new scooters for all my exes kids - but the truth is. . .
I’m broke.

I got freaks for every hour of every day of the week
I got Motel 6 hoes and dimes that stay in the suite
My bedrooms like a revolving door, revolving whores
A revolving chicken head store - but the truth is. . .
I’m lonely.

I pack the most heat on the block
Got an arsenal with everything from Glocks to Tomahawks
I speak the language “Buyaka!” “Buck! Buck!”
And all that gun jargon and rhetoric
You’re head’ll split open, bullets poking holes in your residence
I don’t know big words, but I know numbers and measurements
Like .45, .22, and 9 millimeter
That’ll leave a crack in your spine ‘bout 9 centimeters - but the truth is. . .
I don’t have a gun.

I don’t love these hoes. I don’t trust these hoes.
I f--k these hoes, I crush these hoes, I lust for these hoes
I’m forever rushing these hoes to let me bust in these hoes
Never buying nothing plush for these hoes
I do enough for these hoes, every chance I get
I go out of my way to call em bitch
And ho, and chicken, slut and trick and cunt
Seems to be what the average hip-hop consumer wants - but the truth is. . .
I respect women.

Of all ya’ll hard thugs I’m the hardest
Leave your ass dearly departed, or severely retarded
I’ll kill your wife, I’ll kill your dog, I’ll kill your turtle
I’ll kill your kids, I’ll kill your kids’ future kids
Then spit some cliché bullsh-t like:
“That’s just how it is…”
I’m hard - hard as the eyes of killer, hard as the hands of a slave,
I’ve never known love, and never been afraid,
I’m hard as a body that’s dead, hard as a convicts bed,
Hard as my d--k when I’m getting head - but the truth is. . .
I’m scared…

(I’m scared.)

See, the emcee is the one who’ll whisper the truth.
The rapper is the one who’ll holla the lies.
So don’t act surprised at what your daughter knows when she’s five
Just blame it on the bullsh-t that you buy - look what you’ve done…

I’m a rapper.

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