BUILDING BLUEPRINT
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Lyrical Analysis of...
Street Poet
- Crack dealers on the block, young niggas will tamper weed,
- snipers on the rooftops with guns, triggers plant the seed,
- I feel healthy with weed smoke and an ox up under my sheep coat,
- more phillies than Pete Rose, I'm Southern but on the East Coast,
- we see stars and jack whips, police cars are like beasts though,
- we're loading up the Tecs, getting vexed, keep the streets closed,
- loaded rifles, dealers ready to take lead straight,
- they be pushing more drug pounds than K Fed's weight,
- they gotta be ready on call with the base head's weight,
- and young people tryna make a name got straight cred hate,
- sittin' up in project hallways, crankin' bass, smokin' bones,
- playin' cee lo, rolling dice, and talkin' on their mobile phones,
- drinkin' 40's, whippin' shit, and talkin' shit, their overtones,
- of language will suggest if they're hard and they own the throne,
- lonely roads, the windy breeze, crackheads out cold alone,
- while I'm expressing thoughts of hip hop from my golden dome,
- see I'm never home alone, test me and I'll load the chrome,
- and hold it so it's on point, then beat you 'till your broken bones,
- are laying out in front of me, but anyways, we're roses grown,
- from concrete, and up on streets, we got more of chromosomes,
- I'm supposed to flow and so I'm dope, I rap for broken homes,
- ghettos and kids that roam the globe, patrol like a soldier known,
- smokin' bowls of dope, but still these heads will choke and coke,
- rappers talk shit, they got no lines like cordless mobile phones,
- I guess that it's supposed to be, express that in my poetry,
- my rhymes inside my brain ain't sane, still they're close to me,
- so Catholics hold your rosaries, Baptists pray and roll the weed,
- smoke the trees like forest fires, they provide a golden fleece,
- opposing me, that's supposed to be the method socially,
- surviving and we're thriving on Ramen noodles, frozen peas,
- tough streets, Section 8 inside the public housing projects,
- rough weeks, and teenagers would kill for arousing prospects,
- complex are their theories and their views, the metal speaks,
- but that's the way it goes when you're raised on ghetto streets,
- meanwhile the rich kids are buyin' kush on different shit,
- my homies, they just lift and sniff, whiff when splittin' spliffs,
- the middle class suburban kids are cryin', and slittin' wrists,
- kicks, chips, whips, flicks, chicks will make the missiles hit,
- the phrase the pays inside the streets is sharp is razor blades,
- they bumping, playin' racist tapes, yo we all make mistakes,
- but sometimes in the ghetto see it's hard to move it up and down,
- especially with stomach growls, absent dads, thunder pounds,
- single mothers doing crack and drinkin', it's the hunger sounds,
- that plague the families, lack of structure, it's a dumping ground,
- they can't take the stress and blaze the cess, streets are rough,
- you'd make a mess if shit was dangerous, on knees in cuffs,
- I guess that's the way it is, why is that supposed to be?
- Well never know, but it ain't hard to tell, my street poetry
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