Decades before hosting questionable, direct-to-DVD softcore-porn or AutoCrooning the merits of ejaculation to spaced-out Neptunes beats, Snoop Doggy Dogg was one of the West Coast's better lyricists (note I didn't say "best"). While listening through Doggystyle last week, I came upon this solid bullet from the banger "Serial Killa." The D-O-double-jizzle comes correct and outshines Tha Dogg Pound & RBX, presumably not the most difficult feat, but respectable in its own right. Some people hail Kurupt as one of the Dubside's greatest lyricists, but well... those people are stupid. Yeah, I said it.
The cloud becomes black, and the sky becomes blue Now you in the midst of the Dogg Pound crew Ain't no clue, on why the fuck we do what we do Leave you in a state of paranoia, ooooh Don't make a move for your gat so soon cuzI drops bombs like Platoon (aye, nigga) Walk wit me; hold my hand and let me lead you I'll take you on a journey, and I promise I won't leave you (I won't leave you) Until you get the full comprehension.. And when you do? That's when the mission Of survival, becomes your every thought Keep your eyes open -- cuz you don't wanna be caught Half steppin wit yo' weapon on safety Now break yourself mothafucka, 'fore you make me Take this 2-11 to another level I come up with your ends, you go down with the devil Now roam through the depths of Hell Where the rest your buster-ass homeboys dwell Well...
Today's entry comes courtesy of AOTP & Demigodz mainstay Celph Titled. Granted, the Rubix Cuban has many an ill verse, but for some reason this one stuck with me the most. If you don't like it, hey -- start your own blog.
It's the Army Of The Pharaohs.. Make a threat? You're hardly a scarecrow We bombard you wit ammo, knockin' off your sombrero So move back, vendejo; you dealin' wit a lot of these guys That rock silk suits with Mafia ties I'm blazing hot, open my mouth, flames come out You's a snitch; open your mouth, and names come out So we gon', pop your top off and brains come out Nigga I thought you said you knew, what a gangsta 'bout? Hang 'em out; these pussies is wet, leave 'em to dry I do the work of the devil -- I'm a hell of a guy Unload the MP5 and leave your studio sprayed And have blood squirtin' out ya head like Coolio's braids, doggy This is how we slaughter heads; catch you sleepin' Stab you so deep, the tip of the blade puncture your waterbed Cuz I'm the type to slice the skin on your back off Come back a week later and slice the motherfuckin' scab off
Hands down to anyone who can single-handedly outshine Brick City's perpetually-on-point Reggie Noble in his prime -- not to mention making short work of A+andThe Lost Boyz... on their own song, no less! Canibus is that someone; er, was -- in 1997, that is. I hear he still puts out albums... I wouldn't know -- I stopped listening after the atrocity to music that is C: True Hollywood Stories dropped, and never looked back. (Okay, so Rip The Jacker was dope, but what else? Anyone? Thought so.) Still, 'Bis remains one of the greatest to ever do it if only for classic shit such as today's feature; tactful and witty braggadoccio verbal lacings with an extreme technical air that seemingly go on forever. Actually going on forever is saved for "Poet Laureate Infinity," but I digress.
Canibus brings the sickest drama Fierce enough to pierce the thickest armor I smack bitches for tryin to suck dick through a condom Playing with the mic is something I won't do My only concern when I approach you, is to roast you I smoke you and whoever you standin close to And make every man in your crew deny that he knows you Defeatin, niggas like Segal Steven Puttin emcees in positions to prevent them from breathin' I'll make you question any and everything you've ever believed in By peepin your deepest secrets like psychic readers What's the matter wit ya'll? I splatter y'all Against the mothafuckin wall with these raw lyrics I catapult None of y'all got the balls big enough to battle I go "On & On" like, Erykah Badu A hundred times nicer than the best is Twice as arrogant as KRS is, who wanna test this? Fuck y'all; you don't impress me and no one can test me An emcee so ill, I got AIDS scared to catch me All that shit you poppin'll stop when I put you in a headlock And apply pressure until I crush your mothafuckin noggin I grab mics and push niggas to the left So fast they hearts end up on the right side of their chests My hypo-thesis, is that nobody can see this Lyrical genius, I got it sown like a seamstress But if you want to battle, I'm down If you got nine lives? I'll take eight of them off your hands right now Step up, and get your neck cut from ear-to-ear If you survive then you can cover your scar with a beard I'm the illest from Queens to the New Jerusalem briddicks Anyone who ain't feeling my shiddit can suck my diddick You need to quit it, if you ain't spittin' More than 50 bars per minute cause you ain't in lyrical fitness Kickin' boring raps, with metaphors that's wack All of y'all mothafuckas need NordicTrack To get ya weight up; fuckin wit Canibus you get ate up Beat down and sprayed up, just for bringin' my name up Been rockin' longer than niggas twice my age Back in the days, before Bob Marley was rockin' a fade Before Honest Abe signed the paper that freed slaves Before Neanderthals was drawing on walls in caves I existed, in the garden of Eden gettin' lifted Stickin' dick to Eve before she was Adam's mistress Before Christ created Christmas, I been in lyrical fitness The Canibus is spittin' till he's spitless Fifty bars of total sickness, you won't forget this I'm puttin' every wack emcee alive on my shit list Verbally vicious, telekinetically-gifted Took you a minute to exhibit that I'm sick wit it Now you tell me who you think is damagin' shit Goin' once, goin' twice Sold! to that nigga named Canibus Me and Mr.Cheeks, A-Plus, and Funk Doctor Hoppin' out the Huey helicopter to suey chop ya
Connecticut-born, Vermont-raised erstwhile music producer BlazeStar has grandiose delusions of rescuing something desperately in need of saving: the Art of Lyricism. It is evident now more than ever that the craft of carefully penning words in a technical, verbose, and awe-inspiring manner is on the decline, and has been, since earlier in the millenium.
HEAR THIS!
One man alone may not be able to stop the snowballing descencion of an entire artform into the AutoTuned gutters of SoundCloud trap music and beyond; however, by virtue of this blog, he hopes to exhibit classic gems for young and old heads alike: exposing superior wordplay, rhyme-schemes, and lyrical slayings for those who may have missed them the first time around — or dusting off some memories for those who didn't.
This is where verbal murder comes to play.
This is Verses Of Death
