5 Questions



A very stupid song directed towards my disdain for Drake. On J Dilla’s Beat for “Go Hard”.
– Ithaca, 2016

Question One:
How you gonna say you come correct
With that shit you spit
It sounds like disrespect
Man, that’s verbal diarrhea
Served for two
At a barbecue in Korea
Just for you
And that girl you gave gonorrhea

Question Two:
How you so quick to quip
On girls you get
Man, like it’s fucking legit
Like they’re that chain, that you wear around on your neck
With such disdain, treat’em like they’re only objects
Hos, Bitches, skanks, pros, tricks, and chicken heads
Schemin’ on skeetin on, nasty whorres you get in bed
All she is to you, myopic misogynist
an orifice to assist where your stick your micro-dick
A check list of conquests, a status symbol
That sets you into, trading off compassion
for attraction, masquerading as boastful
Man, that’s the height of hypocrisy
love yo mama, treat women with animosity

Question Three:
Are you a real MC?
Step away from the insanity, and listen to me
Are you on the mic more morphed into metaphor
expression, representing a projection of your eternal core
For listeners, explorin’ those letters you let us pour
through and put’em to a beat peaked with that unique Voice: where choice get compressed and complex forces
repress the poorest without redress
And of course when its manifest, man I profess
you reach for the marketized, not preach for the marginalized,
The meek, and the weak, bleakly speaking with sorrowed eyes
backs broken back by a system filled with wrath and pride`
Tell us, man, what the hell did you come for?
the charts, for the girls, the art, or the greater war

Question Four:
Know you thought of this before
If you ain’t got the back bone
How you goin last long?
Know you used to act strong back on Degrassi
But this ain’t suburban high school, and if you ask me
I ain’t impressed with that mess of a chain on your chest
I’m depressed by those lyrics you profess as your best
And I would stress your success isn’t what you suggest
And I’m obsessed with nothing less till I hear you confess:

That You brought Bieber to the B-Boy, you decoy, I leave ya
Hot with a fever from what I deploy, You’ll need a:
New publicist, a rhyme list, a nihilist outlook on life
And a Tinder account to get right
I swipe left,
That means I meant
You’re not def, not heaven sent
Not eloquent, not relevant
All hype, it’s evident, Wrap up the album
Rap died, your euthanized, gasp for the outcome

Question Five:
How the hell you goin’ survive?
With your brainless, straight anus
Grade school rhyme playlist
Thinking you’re on the A-list
But you can’t hang with
Those lines, that bang like
abortion personified.

Man, I’m of sick of that gimmick shtick
You and your clique can catch a brick
Fetch your ghost writer, dick riders
Go and Sell that shit
See I’m a lyricist,
nice to meet you,
a fighter who will greet you,
with clenched fists when he beats you
Make it clear you’re see through
I unsheathe my teeth
Your career disappears I eat you.
Now you don’t exist.