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Broke-Ass Cracker

March 2, 2010

I haven’t written any rap in a while. Why is that? Probably because I’m stressed and depressed as fuck, that’s probably why. I can’t mount up in these conditions, so there’s not a whole lot of regulating going on. But there’s only one societally acceptable response to adverse circumstances, and that is to display a cavalier, nonchalant attitude – exactly the kind put forth in most rap joints or tracks. Well, boys and girls, I’m not in any position to pull that off. I can’t afford a horse and I can’t project coolness, so I’m whatever the opposite of cavalier and nonchalant are. Pedestrian and pyretic?

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Here we go:

Call me Medusa’s hair ‘cause you know I’m hissin’ malice.
Better yet, call me hirudo medicinalis,
‘Cause everything I try to do I’m suckin’ like a leech.
Don’t nobody love the Strayer at Locarno Beach.
I’m by far the most muthafuckin’ confident
prose and poetry composer on the continent,
so how can I be the insecurest?
How can the best rapper alive be the poorest?
I’m a paradox in a pair o’ Docs,
got holes in every pair o’ socks,
hair in knots, spittin’ curses,
despairin’ ‘cause writin’ sick verses
don’t be providin’ thick purses.
Lord knows the unemployed hos got hard lives,
more jobs than Steve’s family tree in our hard drives,
beaucoup de résumés,
mes amis, s’il vous plaît,

more letters than Dave’s mailbag, stacks and stacks.
I put out more than a whore but I ain’t gettin’ any callbacks.
The Big V don’t give a fig for me,
Nobody got a gig for me.
I got eyestrain and migraines but I ain’t got no health plan.
Talent can’t get you nowhere, muthafucka, only wealth can.
I write prose like pros, and poems, I got oodles,
but nobody gives a shit, I still be eatin’ Mr. Noodles.

Sick and poor in the 604.
The west side is the stressed side…

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