Artist: Kobe Bryant
f/ 50 Cent, Broady Boy, Nas
Album: K-O-B-E 12" *
Song: Thug Poet
* from the forthcoming album "Visions"
You know what this is
I'ma let 'em run around one more time
I drop sumpin' on y'all
It's like... it's like
What's it like?
My microphones and glock nines
Black? I'm dipped in that
The beats, my mash, jam you for the platinum you
Run it, the illest, watch me become it
I'm here, and took it bowling, like straight to
Speak truth like kids, tell you what you don't
Kobe? Yeah, he's real with the flow
Kick in the do' wavin' the flow-flow
All you heard was stop, can't take the hits no
Ha, didn't know I had your block on SWAT?
I'm CIA, y'all nuttin' but beat cops
I rock like my ma's mean, name is cocaine
Place you on my A-fiend list and pay you 'cane
Think you can handle? Not get stripped when you
Think again, you find you lost your mind and judgement
My confidence, springs from watching y'all fall
Aw, forced to hustle, rap in charge
I'ma hop in your brain, tell you whatchu thinkin'
Yes, I am speakin', but I ain't writin'
So cold, I put the ice in nicest
You too broke to pay attention
My style is priceless
If you say murder that means I'm a Thug Poet
If I say my mind kills that means I'm a Thug Poet
If I say that I'm a flock that means I'm a Thug
And when I lay it down, it makes me a Thug Poet
Thank the dudes for the gangs and tanks of booze
Shanks and twos, it's the gangstas, Langston Hughes
My poems' about broken homes and Jesus peaces
Dope is the Popes in Rome
Poetical field, thug overtone, it's like what,
Bring it home, we both go gone
Pre-cord thought flow in the sober zone
My life style, chromosomes frost, hope to clone
The crack lust, black dust, and the gat bust
The claps, the lackluster, memoirs of the black
Condos, Beemers, bomb hoes, coke bags, toe tags,
Fiends skits them into the plane of day, as plain
It's hard to reach, to smell God anyway
Money, think backdrop payin' gray?
Man, rubber-gripped on that rainy day
Peep the way I came to play
One aim at the game, reign and stay
Every stain is straight from objective, insane
'Ey just don't know, I'm two ticks from blowing
a hole through music
But I'm more than pimp-whoring him for the street
You met the ren
Cuz I open 'neath in the weed, hydrogen
Jam my eyes to skin, guide some of our wisest
Until the skies of sin
I pray for the day we see you rise again
Thug Poet Street analyst is this, the
Thug Poet Hustlers bang out to
Thug Poet Flows for your block, Hip-Hop
Aiyyo, everybody know 50 ain't know how to act
I run up on cats with gats and aluminum bats
Y'all got fat while we starved, it's my turn
Shit, I done felt how a slug burned, I still won't
Niggas in the 'hood a-tell ya "50 crazy"
I had your moms screamin' "They done shot
Son, I yap your shine, I clap the nine, I slap
I'm that one of them niggas you wanna fuck with
I spit the shit that make ya keep listenin'
Keep my wrists glistenin'
I left niggas alone and they still think I'm dissin'
I'm on some new shit, S-Type baby blue shit
Niggas talk behind my back but don't do shit
I ain't looking for love, duke, I'm looking for
I leave you with options, like die or hit the
I'm a thug poet, you know what I came for, the
Clap-clap, y'all niggas get the fuck on the floor,
[Nas] (Echoes to fade)