Chorus:
I'm listening to rap cd's in the middle of the storm
Where the weak ones die and the strong ones mourn
And the fire in which you burn keeps me warm
The final breath of death is the art and the form is the rap
Cd's in the middle of the storm
So far from the place I was born
But I've seen it in a porn
The Producer said he had once burned
And he learned how to fill out the form
In the middle of the storm
with the wind blowin hard and fast,
and the hurricane spin throwin shards of glass
alleycats dump litters
and guard trash
feminine skin scraped and shredded
women and men raped and beheaded
and taped as they utter their last breath blood-plastered lips mutter
"...fuck that other bastard..."
kiss their mother
and praise god with the pastor
Race to the death.
Who's faster?
the news casters crews cruised past so they could video tape
the Rapedandbruisedbastard.
Spliced/him/into/segments/used/after/adver.
Tisements and regular (fake)-confused-laughter
I heard of this disaster. But I don't know about it.
But every rapper's got a flow about it.
Chorus
the producer passed,
heard the blood bleeding,
turned
the last words so hot he had a cd
burned
with a song about the mom,
and a song about the pastor
and fifteen songs sayin "FUCK THAT OTHER BASTARD!!"
remixed and mastered, humanity clipped
tracks blunted so everybody wanted a hit
takin shit from the hood makin it taste good
when it played at the club the whole place stood on their tip-toes
wild like flip mode,
calypso snippet so tight they rip clothes at the
hip
hop
hard so the cd skips
on an isolated quote from the dead man's bleeding lips
"...BITCHNIGGAFAG-BITCHNIGGAFAG..."
(onomatopoeia of bloody fists in a bag of dollars)
rich kids hadn't cared now holler "PRODUCER"
poduced a gold six figure tag on his collar
Chorus
he made ten million dollars out of one soul
won't stop
can't stop
spinnin outa control
learnin how to win a gold
and how to flow slow
and in every single video rollin in dough
getting baked with the honeys try to use'm up,
divin into money like Scrooge Mc Duck
frantically movin up,
suckin vodka from bootstraps
standin on the back of a bull in a space suit
trapped killer whales out in the pool
sippin monkey brain out of the skull
with cinnamin sticks
teletubby suit with the head back,
grinnin and shit
yellow belly monitor
tracks blazin sinnen in six
figures relaxin days in linen laced limos
bigger addin switches swimmin in liquer, puff
ciggerette drags and disses callin everybody
"Blacks", and "Gays", and "Women"
this is rags to riches
bread crumbs to cream
from wanted ads to ads for burrito supremes
stocks, bonds, and charity teams
millionaire cleans doubt out by sharin the green but
he's openly declarin his schemes -tough, arrogant, mean
time to time tries to teach what Farrakhan means
I was starin at the baren scene there in the screen
and he yelled out "I AM THE AMERICAN DREAM"
Chorus
