The Illmatic (An On-The-Spot-Poem…don’t laugh) 12 April 2012

12 Apr

Pass me the mic, real quick

I can’t help but drop it

I was ready to go HAM

(Not turkey, but HAM)

Mic right here in my hand

I was ready to spit sweet venom in ya ear

Smooth with a fucking kick

Hot chocolate with a secret dash of cheyenne

I told you that it was about to go down and now…

Now I just look like a microphony

Up in my Foo Fighters tee

Trying to break into the wrong genre

The B-boys and the rappers are confused

Confused by my presence

And I am too

Not a fucking clue what I was trying to prove

“Represent, represent!” the chorus chimes

They all laugh at me

And you do, too

I wanted to come up here and drop mad rhymes

I wanted to go out of my comfort zone

I’ve never done it

But I’ve practiced! 

I can show you the exact hairbrush that was my mic!

It has my faded green hair in it’s bristles

And I didn’t even drop it back then.


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