Bop On Fake Hip Hop
by Asia Calcagno
I know black boys who could figure out
scientific formulas without TI 85s'. Hear
them cipher about fine bitches at lunch-time.
I rant to Paul about my philosophy on rapping;
this "dream" for new age. A phase festering.
I thank at least him for spittin' 16s' for real.
No idea's original. There's nothin' new under the sun.
I could go for hours with Myspace message
telling Jay his bullshit rap has cliché for
days. I don't want titles of "Ho's" in my
e-mail. And you have no 20 inch dubs, don't
ask me to listen to track number three. You
woke up with a bootleg dream. Mixed tapes
play Frisbee in hallways, titled "Get Money".
High school boys praise BET platitude.
I want real rappers to spit for real this time.
No idea's original. There's nothin' new under the sun.
Patience is always tested. I time this
hiatus on changing the world and count
only one handful of true MCs who don't
roll on 36s. Intellectuals who mangle
minds to barbed wire, write raps about
how their dream became real by rearranging it.
I want real rappers to spit for real this time.
I want real rappers to spit for real this time.
No idea's original. There's nothin' new under the sun.
Italics: Nas song with MF DOOM beat. (unknown song)