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Keepin’ It Real

November 4, 2009

Oftentimes part of the appeal of the content of a diss track or brag track is that it isn’t particularly believable. On a full-length album, the gangsta rapper or lady gangsta rapper usually chooses to offset the hyperbolescence and boastificity by including one or two gritty tracks in which s/he explores the harsh realities of his/her past, or the difficulties s/he is experiencing currently as a result of being so wealthy, famous, sexually desirable, etc. I thought I’d follow this trend and compose a track of this type so that my many, many readers will know that my life isn’t all pussy consumption and after-parties. I hope you enjoy it.

February sixteen and the winter was mean,
Coldest day of 1980 I showed up on the scene.
I was born with back hair.
Explain to me how that’s fair.
A Saskatchewan sasquatch, you could tell I was my father’s daughter,
Either that or the offspring of my mama and a river otter.
I spent the first eight years of my life in Regina,
Which gets beaked off constantly because it rhymes with “vagina”.
Was allergic to cats and my ears were always infected.
Had to have day surgery to get ‘em protected.
And I been try’n’a be a writer since back in ’84.
My first story was some kinda postmodern metaphor.
It was called “The Invisible Cats That Ate the City.”
I was four, so I’m guessing it was prob’ly pretty shitty.
Growin’ up was wack, it was absolutely no fun.
I was small and solitary, played alone ‘cause I had no one,
So shy that socializin’ caused daily trauma,
And my parents were busy with some kinda baby mama drama.
I preferred pens to friends,
Paragraphs to playground laughs,
Looking up to hooking up,
Contemplating to random dating,
Word play to foreplay.
Now fast forward to the present day.
I take all the scars from all the hard times
And I turn them into hard rhymes.
I rock so hard some people think I’m a geologist.
I’m excavating words, I’m a linguistic archaeologist.
I’m so hilarious it ain’t even funny.
And I ain’t pushin’ 30, hell no, I’m pullin’ 20.
You’re muthafuckin’ right I can muthafuckin’ write,
But I can switch from Strunk & White to crunk & tight
At the speed of light; I love a drunken night.
I get more tipsy than a spinnin’ dreidel,
More strung out than cat’s cradle.
I rent my own home, homies, 500 square feet.
Ain’t much space but it’s sweet, and I keep the place neat.
Any modern novel you can name, you bet your ass I’ve read it.
Money? I don’t never sweat it, dude, it’s fine, I’ll get it.
Got three hundred in my checking and a student line of credit.
Some cats out there got five extra hoes;
Well, my cat’s got five extra toes.

Suck on it, bitches! You’re stuck on it, bitches!

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