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letra de five courses - defcee

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1
you can find me slappin the durag off a whiteboy’s head
or takin scissors and some clippers to a whiteboy’s dreads
on reddit, wreakin havoc in the whiteboy’s threads
thinkin, d-mn, i wonder if they remembered i’m a whiteboy yet

i’m the greatest semiprofessional rapper of all time
committin small crimes: feedin jewish children bags of pork rinds
makin up for lost rhymes by writin for your top five
and pickpocketin everyone askin me why i’m not signed

swandive into the endives, cheddar, guac, chives
and every culinary synonym for money i could not find
got rappers hurtin like gronk spine
and if they overstayin they welcome, i’m chargin em for extra lot time

notebook full of opium leaves. every song from your team
work as well as camouflagin golden fatigues
def a guttersnipe, with white ice on my heartbeat
i shark week rappers in an ocean where only the guppies talk cheap

2
i fathered the underground
that’s why i first heard your style through an ultrasound
them babies can’t rap like their pops
carried my tape through the sahara in a cast-iron box

lawrence of arabia beard on. in rare form
vip at the club, makin it rain scantrons
y’all tryna raise the bar that i bought out
it’s father’s day. got so many cards that i lost count

my whole crew shoots art and writes drugs
shatters the hourgl-ss whenever our time comes
d-mn…i’m like the dame dash of bounced checks
y’all take mouse steps. i put elephant feet through couch sets

twenty-second timeouts, late-game decisions
livin day to day, fam. i measure faith in inches
paper-plated kitchen. never ape the system
ancient wisdom–throw a chair to break the tension

3
you can tell it’s me by the gas smoke
post-apocalypse: haz-mat lab coat full of dad jokes
still the bad yolk, black goat, odd goose
sharp tooth knocked loose. lost youth

stolen out my billfold. engraved the dead’s names
on my tims and finished hittin the heel-toe..some of what i built broke
some of it got legs like sequoia trunks
poison funk boilin up outta ian’s crib in the mil, jo

akademiks tellin drill jokes. lost my laughter
at the first teenaged wake i couldn’t sit still for
studied hov blueprints–water pour out the songs
face fallin like rome. colosseum full of poems

are you not entertained? blood on the lion fangs
mud in the nike veins. usher dance in iron rain
what do you prescribe for pain? all i had was smoke and drink
and still havin dreams of my friends dyin, mane

4
lookin at the exit. i ain’t traveled as far
wasted my twenties arguin rap at the bar
like, “settle a bet. h-ll is hot or flesh of my flesh?”
the road to redemption built outta bottles i’ll never regret

the adventures of adderall adam and his jagged little pillbox
cut open his memory, and it’ll spill rocks
built clocks with gears from my train of thought
owin debts of grat-tude, and i’ll never pay em off

at your favorite rapper’s shows, and i’m writin all the cue cards
their style so old they gotta help it put its shoes on
lace the beat like a corset
got more bars than hollywood got divorces

expect heaven to drop, but i ain’t tellin y’all about it
in the middle of my sermon when i had fell off the mountain
and they never really ever helped me back to the summit
still rapped as both of the ten commandment tablets cracked in my stomach
beat the breaks off the beat
wiped the snakes off my feet
tipped my hat to my heart
i ignored it for art

i painted you my ego and i tore it apart
i painted you my ego and i tore it apart

beat the breaks off the beat
wiped the snakes off my feet
tipped my hat to my heart
i ignored it for art

i painted you my ego, then i tore it apart
i painted you my ego, then i tore it apart

5
legend has it…he wrote a hundred bars a day
still not true enough to unlock a state-sponsored cage
built a storage locker with books of rhymes and tapes
threw gas, lit a match, dropped it…then walked away

retired ten miles from the nearest open mic night
wrote his memoirs. was happier broke in hindsight
last seen at the bar, arguin with two tomorrow kings
askin rich to borrow rings to rock at the bada-bing

too drunk to drive home…let’s see what manana brings
lookin at every sunrise like it’s a slot machine
rumors are backdrafts–lately, he’s writin mad raps
prayin that his future isn’t twinnin with his dad’s past

only taking interviews via landline
quit twitter. started livin off the fat of the landmine
what don’t excite you thrills him
you don’t like him? bill him

- defcee

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