I’m lyrically fantastic.
Make your head bob like bombastic.
Tappin’ on your brain like a nail in a casket,
I loose you quick like a little yellow basket.
A tisket, a taskit. Ella or Larry?
No, you didn’t catch it.
Re: listen. Let your eyes turn to matches.
I call you Gerald and I give you the Fitz.
Strike you down with the lyricist wit. I don’t quit.
Focus
on the allusions in my magic. It’s madness
trying to survive like “The Hatchet”
cuz my heart keeps on Paulsen. Check your pulse, son, cuz I keep the pun on my tongue.

Hip Hop colors my mouth like the blues.
The shade of my voice, you couldn’t measure the hue.
Shit, I pitty the fool tryin’ to place me in a box.
I’m real hip hop.
They puppets like Lamb Chop.

Blaow! like a gunshot.
I make em’ shake like a uvula.
I be absuin’ yah.
My rhymes bring confusion with contusions.
If I’m loosin’ yah, check your bruises, uh.
Pain can be intangible.
Strange how I handle my mandible.
Burst flame like the candle glow.
Switch flow like Flat top to Afro.
I’m packin’ ammo.

I run shit
like laxatives through your assholes.
Metaphors and similes—they never play bashful.
I could give a shit about your cashflow
cuz I put in work like a backho.

Now what I’m gettin’ at, my pal,
is that wealth
can never be truly physic-cal,
so while you play fis-cal
I be the pure individual stretchin’ my sylla-bow-owles.

Break down, like my name was James Brown.
This be the big payback
but I be Brown and Proud.
I be quiet and loud.
This is my stompin’ ground.
I’m shakin’ grassy roots just like a powwow now.

Call me the fancy dancer.
Smooth-tongue-talkin’-hip hop romancer—ill enough they call me cancer.
The enzymes in my rhymes bind time like DNA enhancers.
I go bone deep like radiology.
Your jaw’s too weak to bite a line.
You’ll loose your teeth
tryin’ to b-boy pose and freeze
on the X-rays of my ideology.
Callin’ “Olly-Olly oxen free”
cuz they can’t see me.
I infect them with the funk like an STD.

The juggernaut that the tanks couldn’t stop.
Product of the bullets that the sniper done dropped
and lost. Misshot from smooth barrels that banged or popped.
Before the Bigs, before the Pacs, I trace my lineage to the blood drops
Drippin’ down the baton of the dirty cop.

From every barrio to city block,
from every pueblo and farm house,
where pain grows like bean stocks.
Jack be nimble, now Jack be quick.
Jack’s cow got jacked by the IRS: now ain’t that some shit.
So be blasted back at the establishment.
Whether up in the ring or On The Road, he battled with the candlestick.
Now the same flame flickers from my lips.
Spittin’ frijoles fuegos ‘til they call me “Spic.”

So funky give your face a lift.
So funky give your face a lift.
I’m bending time like some matrix shit.
Watch how I unstitch a fake persona quick.
My pen and pad is a scalpel kit.
Call me The Alchemist,
turnin’ water into wine like a magic trick,
line after line, blow minds like pink mist,
the funky mystic misfit, born from the break of the drum kick,
born from Santana riffs,
and Jimi Hendrix licks,
you better call it quits, cuz you ignorant,
you limited,
I’m rivitin’.
Watch how I pummel the mumbles of these Barney Rubbles cuz they so primitive.

And I’m funky
like James Brown with a little bit of Bun B,
funky like Miles, Gil Scott, Janis Joplin jumpin’,
Lady Day, Blues Junkies bumpin’
in the trunk of a caddy with a bass that’s thumpin’.
I’m the Jack O’ Lightening in yo pumpkins,
Middle America, City Slicker to Country Bumpkin,
I’m the mixed blood mestizo, strugglin’, hustlin’
dead-dream shovelin’,
hip hop’s foster son,
bruised lip mumblin’,
rugged genius,
good will hunting,
pride like a boulder,
chipped shoulder,
Kanye combustion,
Ali-to-Sonny Liston head crushin’
floatin’ like a honey bee rumbling.


I hold pen and mic like knife.
I write precise
like a surgeon incisioning
time, split, space, splintering, pivoting, envisioning the day
of my Funky Autopsy.
Cold body.
They will open me up,
dig past the muscle and mush,
hope to retrieve broken particles of records in my guts,
use lazars to extract the flavor from my tongue,
plug speakers into my lungs,
pump and press to recreate the freshness of my breath,
search for drum kits beneath my chest,
guitar strings ligaments holding bones,
piano keys in my fingers and toes,
ink in my veins and bones.
They will think
to cut my heart free,
toss it on the turntable and remix my. . .
(hear beat)
but all there will be is the fresh scent of dead flesh. Funk. . .


[Biggie Smalls]
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.

I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.
I live for the funk. I die for the funk.