Urban Poetry

This is the thirty first third,
No one thought that through word,
Blindness occurred,
Names slurred, messages misheard,
Truths blurred, causing hate and murder

A music of the streets,
causing more heat then XTC and VD,
But please,
Rakim and Eric B speak more to me then Martin Luther King,
Playstation two or T.V.,

So why you gotta hate,
And try to take what makes a broke man cake?
I just wanna get paid,
It aint all about getting laid,
Mistreatin a bitch or blastin the AK,
In the end, your talk is just more money made.

The word is access to the soul,
But you went and stole
What made a nation whole;
Telling us are hip-hop floetrys a dark hole,
In a road to hell and our flows cause murderas, yo
Shit sounds scandalas,
Cuz all I’m trying to do is make money han’ova’fiss,
You bitch talking cats maka mah’wanna’blass*(1)
Peace is hard when my word’s hated the mass,

A mass of middle class white trash,
Just as fast put my ass in a body cass*(2)
Thinkin there physical violence will leave an impression that’ll last,
Past when the vast mass makes me a legend, on the level of Nas the Nass*(3)

So whats the cause of these massive flaws?
Societys imoralitys and soon to be laws,
Like these Columbine tragedys lie on musicians shoulders, we aint gahds*(4)
We just make music and sprew it, we aint dogs,
So quit treatin us like a bitch, Cuz nigga you just makin us rich.

1. Man want to blast (Shoot someone)
2. Cast.
3. Nasty Nas (Rapper)
4. Gods.