Rap is a craft and it oughta be,
But my rap is crap;
That’s just the way it comes outa me.
My rhymes and my rhythm are kinda feeble,
When I play a record sideways all I do is break the needle.
You lay a eight on its side and you get a infinity;
that’s how old I was when I lost my virginity.
Took my side piece out for a high class dinner
To show her I’m a winner
But I lost all my street cred when I ordered the sweetbread.
My homies formed a gang
And I tried to join the ranks,
But the only part of “gangsta”
I can handle is the “angst.”
I’d bust a move but my move buster’s rusted,
I’d pop a cap but my aim can’t be trusted.
One more thing to say
Before I depart:
Next time I’ll do a mic drop
Before I start.
Pizza? Out
A follow-up to “Why I Cannot Sing the Blues”