With that bragging confidence which drips cool,
Rap makes money, which allows you to be a fool.
But without money, your colorful attitude is annoying,
Hip hop a nerd mall cop when the money’s not pouring.
Simple beats and frank sexuality
May not be good poetry,
But visual brag,
Professional videos of modern classical music in drag,
Sampled thievery and party scenes,
Means the rapper doesn’t need to explain what he means.
The grunt is enough, the shuffling thug life
Cool to cuck, intriguing to wife.
But don’t ask me; rap songs all seem the same,
Like cigarettes, like bias, like anybody’s name.
What, you think I’m a racist because I don’t like Obama?
Do you think I hate my mother cause I don’t like your mama?
Shit.
Here’s my chorus: Oh Shit.
Rap makes you confident; no person wants to be afraid,
And then some producer says hey you get paid.
I tried rap, and I’m still nice.
I know it’s just an act. But this is not an act: I’m your only vice.
You suffer, sorry. This poem doesn’t give advice.
I saw your charity. So I knew you still loved me. That was nice.
Oh Shit.
Do you think you are good now? Is that it?