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A Holiday Tradition Since 2009

December 20, 2010

Any piece of writing that begins with “It’s that time of year again!” should be automatically banned from the universe and its author should be bit in the crotch by a dog wearing a shirt. I received two Christmas cards today and they were both fantastic. One expressed a wish for a new gangsta Christmas track. Well, I live to give–not just around Jesus Time but all through the year. It’s been a while since I dropped the beat. What have I been doing instead? Writing serious poetry? Who the hell wants that? I’ll tell you who: nobody.

It happens that I’m listening to the new Kanye West album and aside from being off the chain, the charts, and the hook (“Monster” contains an especially memorable shoutout to Egyptology, if there are any aficionados of ancient cultures out there), it’s poetically inspiring the shit out of me right now. Fuck I wish I was some kind of rap superstar. Why isn’t it happening? Because I’m spending too much time on the serious poetry nobody wants, that’s probably why.

Well, this should go part of the way toward making up for that foolishness. (Should you wish to read last year’s installment, click on the red “here” here.)

 

Black letters hip-hoppin’ like tracks through the snow.

My rabbit-like flow makes rapids look slow,

it’s so swift. Here’s your gift; I’ma rap it in your presence.

I’m imperial, I’m givin’ y’all metrical lessons.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, not a hood rat be stirrin’.

Noses tipped with icing sugar; all the pussy be purrin’.

I toss back a nightcap and I slip into bed.

With visions of Suge Knight dancin’ through my head.

And in my dreams it seems I come ridin’ up the block

like Santa in his sleigh. Knock, knock! I cock my Glock,

slay my foes, I’m shoutin’ loud like caps lock.

MERRY MUTHAFUCKIN’ CRIPSMAS!

GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!

BUST OUT THE CRIS, ASS

SHAKIN’ ALL AROUND!

WHAT’S THAT MUTHAFUCKIN’ SOUND?

CAN YA MUTHAFUCKIN’ HEAR IT?

IT’S THE COCKSUCKIN’ MUTHAFUCKIN’ HOLIDAY SPIRIT!

Every single Blood falls, then my ho ho ho calls.

She’s finished with the malls, ready for some Christmas balls.

I got a week off work and I spend all of it fuckin’.

Pop my meat into her oven, yeah we makin’ turducken.

She’s a dasher, a dancer, a prancer and a vixen;

I been cornered by Cupid, I’m on her and blitzin’.

You can call me Santa Claus; every Christmas Eve I come.

Or call me Rudolph ‘cause my nose is red from hot buttered rum.

And I ain’t got time for Trojans; you can call me Achilles,

Even in Vancouver, ain’t no rain coats on no willies.

And when I wake up it’s December twenty-five.

I’m delighted, I’m the most excited gangsta alive.

I creep out the bed, sneak downstairs without a sound;

stockin’s overflowin’, presents stacked like fiddies all around.

Unghh. Check out the manger.

Who dat stranger?

Baby Jeezy in da heezy!


Magical rhyme for a magical time, bitches.

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