(pop sound effect plays)
(tense, hip-hop music plays)
- KXNG Crooked, Eastside, Long Beach, California.
My name is KXNG Crooked.
I snap on you rappers often.
When I'm spazzin',
I'm just gettin' my passionate point across
like a hood cat clappin' his hands when he talkin'.
Now that I got your attention,
I feel I should really mention,
don't come around here flossin'.
Big Willies, we Willie Lynch 'em.
Pull out the chopper,
rappers hittin' the ground like every bar's a bullet.
When I pull it, it sound like, ba-da-da-da-da-da-da.
A couple of bullets are comin' your way
then it jam, like God damn.
Then I pick up somethin' quicker,
start killin' everything in the vicinity,
the proximity,
the Glocksimity,
we on Yosemite Sam.
Bam, bam, your body drop,
Van Damme, karate chop.
The Beretta's a better competitor.
Pop, pop,
turn your sweater to a crop top.
Killin' you and whoever in that drop top.
Etcetera, etcetera and it will not stop.
Just shoot, shoot, like doot, doot.
And beaucoup, beaucoup, I'm cuckoo.
I'm a star goin' to war with you clones like Count Dooku.
I'm worlds apart from you rappers.
Like I walk in the booth rockin' a biosuit made of plastic.
And NASA's galactic elastic travelin' through space,
interstellar rapping.
Broadcastin' from uninhibited planets.
When I come back, that's it.
You see a flash in the sky, it's that nigga, I.
When I land, you wack niggas die.
And your casket is your last hit.
You wack bitch. (spits)
Fuckin' bastard.
Back to the hand clappin'.
You die quicker than Darren Wilson walkin' through Ferguson,
dressed like the grand dragon of the Klan,
passin' niggas with pants saggin'
with they hand on a black Magnum
to clap him backwards.
So their last words is "kcuf meht nmad saggin."
That's backwards for "fuck them damn niggas."
Buck them damn triggers.
You charge us, bodies fill up them damn rivers.
'Cause everybody wanna be the best rapper alive,
but I only like dead rappers.
Compare me to the best rappers who died.
And you rappers I used to look up to,
I gotta cancel you now.
Like Simon Cowell, I can't let you ex-factors survive.
Nah,
the time's right and they finally limelightin'
the god of this rhyme writin'.
My mic can only be likened to Poseidon's trident
and Zeus' lightnin' strike.
And my metaphors are what Thor was to the Norse viking.
I'm a born titan and at-point kill 'em like swordfightin'.
I'm slicin' organs with songwritin', I dwarf giants.
I hope I'm rubbin' you pussies wrong,
sort of like poor dykin'.
I smoke philosophy, I snort science.
That mean I'm higher than higher learnin', look in my eyes.
That's where the fire's burnin'.
Try to deny a music messiah's returnin'.
You die and you fry in my iron furnace.
I am on my get rich or die tryin',
like when Em was signin' Curtis.
'Cause I am murderous.
- Joe Budden.
Jersey City, New Jersey.
Now we can do this a couple of different ways,
it really depends.
Could give them classic NY jeans over the Timbs,
or I could spit about my car and how it sit on the rims.
Or I could tell you why I'm hot and disappear like MIMS.
But the bars there, put that on God, ask a atheist.
And if I ain't the bomb, at least I'm in the blast radius.
I'm beating these kids' indictment.
Shit, I like the terror.
APB on my actions, I'm in the viking era.
Moment of truth, I give you facts right now.
Fuck this cypher, my mind ain't on rap right now.
So it's fuck metaphors and punches, all the witty shit.
Got a missing uncle and another need a kidney flip.
Face says I been stressed.
I got an aunt getting her ass kicked by MS.
Nigga, why am I here?
For the look, for the promo.
Shit that bothered from the start.
'Cause the cancer left his lungs
and it's on my grandfather's heart.
Yeah, just not the side that the beat is on.
I'm supposed to put that to the side when the beat is on.
I'm planning the funeral, I'm getting the hearse ready.
These niggas only wanna ask me if the verse is ready.
Not a how do I feel, not a how do I deal.
If that's life, then nigga, how is it real?
These last couple of days I've been speaking to my peers.
Giving them cries for help,
I guess they need to see the tears.
But wait, wildest part of all of that is
they'll shoot a suicidal rapper right here on the bridge.
But fuck it, gotta pardon 'em,
shout out to my squad and 'em.
House Gang, Shady, I'm gone, nigga, my job is done.
- Yelawolf.
Gadsden, Alabama.
My name is Wayne, I'm from Alabama.
Here's the back story:
I just fell off the turnip truck with Ernest Tubb.
I'm 33, I've got 3 kids and I just popped 3 pills.
I don't know which one's which or what it's for.
Safety ain't really a habit I've formed.
I still smoke to the cigarette butt.
I still drink till I end up being that klutz.
Clumsy, self-destructive dummy.
Stumbling over my words, mumbling.
I'll probably do it tonight.
Leave the bar, leave the car,
and pass out like a fetus in a jar
with my feet up to the stars.
And dream about that light that leads up to the lord.
I have nightmares about my momma
getting beat up in the yard.
Wake up feeling like half a human.
Hit the studio and unleash this guilt and regret
for my lack of union between rap,
you and the rock and roll community.
But unity between country music and MCs,
I'm claiming immunity.
Still I'm working, sawing, milling this tree.
Building this house exactly the way Charlemagne tha God
and Lord Jamar thought it would be.
Wait a minute, the lord and the god hate me.
Jesus Christ, I am the white devil!
Nah!
I'm still working, sawing, milling this tree.
Building this house exactly the way I thought it should be.
Wanna take a tour?
Let's see.
I've got floor-to-ceiling windows and a cabin-style mansion.
Bucks, bears, trucks, boats, tires, spares, four-wheelers
three-wheelers, two-wheelers, a drug dealer on call.
Plaques on the wall,
racks on the wall for my guns on the wall.
Lift kits, low riders, chop shops,
high tops, low tops, cowboy boots
Dixie flags, American flags, Slumerican tags
on my Slumerican ass.
CEO.
I've got my name on the bathrobe,
and the flame on the back porch is lit.
Guess who's coming to dinner?
André 3000 and Hank the Third, go figure.
I've got two stand-up jetskis,
a top pedigree horse,
just to pet and feed, of course.
Who rides a horse in Nashville?
I might.
I've got bicycles for the kids, tricycles for the babies.
M-80s, bottle rockets, bottles in my pocket.
Moonshine, gold watches, gold rings.
All fake, no bling, don't hate, that's my thing.
I've got new clothes, old clothes, vintage,
tremendous, endless style.
Goodwill loves me Mackle-more than you.
I've got flat screen TVs, with skate videos on repeat.
All the latest CDs, mp3s, and Beats by Dre.
Thank you very much, Jimmy Iovine for the check.
I've got a black woman fine as she can be.
FeFe with a ring on her finger
that could give sight to the blind.
A 5, a 10, a couple hundreds layin' on the counter,
I don't know where that came from.
I got artwork from hard work, yardworkers for yard work.
Don't look under the tarp, sir.
I'm growin' weed for my mama there.
I've got a paved driveway
and photos in the hallway of me on my Harley.
And, I did it,
♪ My way ♪
See, hip-hop is what you make of it,
and I'm makin' a lot of it.
See that's a quadruple entendre.
Jay Z.
Eat your heart out.
- Joell Ortiz.
Brooklyn, New York.
But these cyphers?
I treat 'em like they a war,
don't want no mediators.
Nah,
this that grow up in the P's behavior,
next door to the greasy neighbors.
People thank you, I do this for all the mean creators.
I was someone who never needed favors to get where I'm at.
Now they deem me a savior.
But to be honest I ain't feelin' like that,
man I just really like rap.
Y'all lucky, trust me.
I'm opposite the hands of Sandusky.
With the shit that my pen state,
these rappers can't touch me.
Ugly?
Shit, you serious?
I'm hideous.
I was better than all you silly kids
while trying to figure out just who I really is.
As a younger dude, life was somethin' rude.
I barely made it to the first, like a Cutler move.
No rubber groove on my shoes led to fights,
so suspensions I had 3 in one week.
Yeah, that was public school.
Did I say 3 in 1?
That's funny 'cause there's 4 of us in the Slaughter.
That's a 3 and 1.
I learned that in public school too.
Like what's in between a 3 and 1.
And House Gang, I spoke to all 3 on 1 call.
Like I dropped 2 albums and #3 is 1 second from bein' done.
Just need y'all 3 to send me 1 verse apiece.
For this Heatmakerz beat and Brother's Keeper 1.
Simple mathematics, I'm addin' up to all these rap addicts.
I don't like to divide dough so I multiply flow
and subtract maggots.
Like a brand new Craftmatic, boy I'm back at it.
Smokin' these new boys like my last habit.
Dabnabbit,
I tried to quit,
but everything I kick's like the last dragon.
Hoes suckin' my drummer dick, they on my bandwagon.
I just gotta laugh 'cause y'all pushin' a lot of swag.
I'm pushin' this big ole Hearse, don't get body bagged.
- Royce Da 5'9".
Detroit, gah.
These new rappers be askin' me
why I don't be hangin' out where they be hangin' out.
I tell 'em, I say,
"Lil nigga, listen here.
If I don't got no business there,
I don't got no business there.
See there's a difference here.
You hustlin' so you can be seen.
Nigga, I'm grindin' so I can disappear.
I don't do it like other rappers do.
When it's on time, it's skull and bone signs at the stu.
We got guns you only find on your cheat code screen.
If you think I remind you of any of these niggas
you wildin' out, like Chico Bean.
When there's drama I don't ask no questions,
I just clap in that direction.
I look at this gat like it's a actual accessory.
I'm anti-social, so relax when you step to me.
Nigga, I shoot the breeze with actual weaponry.
Your lil' stare downs won't fare well.
I got a pale conscience, I'm the grey area.
The last person I had a bond with was a bail bondsman.
Now imagine me hangin' with y'all
and we rappin' on the same song.
Nigga, I'd rather juggle a couple of chainsaws
or run through hell with a pair of gasoline Hanes on.
I'm a star but not on some "I wanna be a star" kinda shit.
The only celebrity who give a fuck less than me
is Marshawn Lynch.
Glock in the stash as a backup but the MAC'll burst.
Cripple your style, your first born child'll come out
with a colostomy bag as the afterbirth.
I don't give a fuck.
Nigga, I'll show up to Beyonce's show posin' as Jay Z.
Stagger in your studio session
with a bomb strapped to my chest
lookin' like Omarion holdin' his baby.
Jump in the 4 door Mercedes with a .44
listenin' to JoJo and K-Ci
drinkin' and sniffin' enough blow that it got me thinkin'
I can exchange sicknesses.
Maybe, this ebola for rabies.
That's it, just livin' the rapper life.
Banana clip in the air,
lookin' like it's 'bout to start singin',
it's MAC tonight.
MACs, I use this MAC as a component for thugs rollin' up.
I got this MAC on and you better stay in that corner.
'Cause shit can turn into that song
except I don't give a fuck what day it is.
I'll have this club goin' up.
Fuck with me.
Mack magnet, attractin' enormous green.
Slap this clip in this gat then call this arm Christy Mack
'cause this bitch is that war machine.
Life of a giant,
but who needs size when you're wack and your team's soft?
Drag your girl down this hill
'til she admits that it feels like
she's jackin' the beanstalk.
We both got marketing plans.
Yours is to sell records
and try to net more than you gross before.
Mine is to punch you in your face if you ever disrespect me
and then go and invest into a grocery store.
Rolled up with the Smith & Wesson
and drew on you like let's fight now.
I do numbers, I turn you and your crew into two plumbers.
Translation, get your shit together and pipe down.
Fuck a mic, I don't write, I chew and spit.
I'll shoot you and your sis if you insist.
I got my eyes on the sparrow.
Silencer's so big it look like I got Bobby Shmurda
tied to the front of the barrel.
And he doin' this.
- My name is Marshall.
I'm reppin' that motherfuckin' Motor City, bitch.
I just turned Slaughterhouse to a quintet.
Began to trend-set, murdered a friend's pet.
Made shit as ill as it can get,
went in-depth, like a fucking vignette.
And two bars, skins wet.
I'm already covered in sweat,
and I wasn't even ready to come in yet.
Ah!
Let me set this drink down.
Beat up a gal, start beef with her pal.
Probably be wild 'til I'm wrinkled and senile.
And "Rap God" was a freestyle.
Off the top of the dome piece
while I was 'sleep on the couch.
And I'm freestyling now.
I need a towel, sweat leaks from my brow.
It's burning my eyes, my cerebral is foul.
'Cause shit I'm thinking about should be illegal.
I need my head banned like the guy who left Cleveland, Ohio
and went to South Beach with his talents.
Scream "fuck you" on the way out and wink with a smile.
This whole game can eat a dick,
I'm going back deep underground.
But right now, I'm back on that bullshit
and you I'm singling out.
'Cause you're so fucking outdated
you should mingle a while.
What the fuck is this Klusterfuk of busters?
Bunch of Buster Douglas', motherfuckers is one hit wonders.
One swing and you're crowned.
Knocked one out the park, one catchy jingle and now,
you think you fucking with me 'cause you sold like 300 thou?
Bitch, I can jump without my feet ever leaving the ground.
Reach up, swing from a cloud with 3 thousand people around.
Evil and vile enough to leap in the crowd
and heave a child in a sinkhole on Cinco de Mayo
when I'm sprinkled in pico de gallo.
Mardi Gras beads in a towel.
I just made that up.
I don't know much Spanish, I'm not bilingual,
but I'll show you a Mexican stand off
between just these two amigos.
'Cause neither really wants to say
what we're thinking out loud.
But I sure as fuck think I know how to read body English,
no doubt.
'Cause we're trying to kill each other, but lyrically
the fuck is humility?
What is a real emcee?
Royce, he came up in this shit with me.
Never spit that hustler shit, it wasn't a fit for me.
Let them adjust 'til they just get the gist of me.
Just not giving a fuck and plus with the history
of muscular distrophy, it wasn't a mystery
why this middle finger was stuck in this upward positioning.
So what in the fuck is a list to me?
I'm used to not being on it, I expect it out 'em.
Heck wit' em, I get my respect without 'em.
Ain't really been into diamonds
since I put my first record out.
But I could put a chain around my second album
and wear it as a neck medallion.
Became a millionaire, went downhill from there.
Became civil, office swivel chair, sterling silverware,
screaming life is still unfair til I get a real career.
The fuck am I gonna do until then?
This job is too fulfilling.
Two ga-jillion pairs of super villain shoes to fill in.
A mood to kill till I plow my Coupe de Ville
into some children at the food pavilion at Build-A-Bear.
Warrior's mind, I'm pro-hydrocodone euphoria
in the Drug Emporium line, I'm soaring.
I'm pouring Vicodin four at a time
ignoring the warning signs on 'em
'fore I go four wheeler riding.
Gory and violent, horrifying.
You surely won't find no one more abhorring
than I am with this retaliatory of rhyming
for Gloria Steinem.
But I finger her like a witness, show me a line-up.
I usually am abusive, but excuse me, ma'am,
I guess I must've threw you for a loop like Toucan Sam
when I said I could use the sample 'cause you's a tramp.
But look how you react to this trigger like
when I call you a bigger dyke than the Hoover Dam.
You're playing right into Lex Luthor's hand.
It's such a ruthless plan, might even lose a fan.
But fuck it,
Superman wouldn't change in a phone booth for Stan.
I'm a brand new being, like Grand Puba's band.
Happy as Anderson Cooper having a tuba crammed
in his pooper with lubricant.
Wait, that's too, I can't.
Since honesty is the best policy
I'll give you the old college try.
Try to acknowledge my mistakes, probably won't qualify.
As a gentleman and a scholar,
but it's time that I swallow pride
and say that I'm sorry, sorry I can't apologize.
I think of all them times I compromised my bottom lines
and thought of rhymes that sodomized your daughter's minds.
Then I'm like, dollar signs.
But I may fight for gay rights especially if they dyke.
Is more of a knockout than Janay Rice.
Play nice, bitch, I'll punch Lana Del Rey right
in the face twice like Ray Rice in broad daylight
in plain sight of the elevator surveillance.
Til her head is banged on the railing.
Then celebrate with the Ravens.
Never date an assailant who self-medicates with inhalants.
I'd meditate, but I may need a better way to escape
the aggression, rage and the anger.
'Cause leg restraints on the ankles,
heavy weights and an anchor with handcuffs in chains,
just ain't enough to contain it.
But I'd still get the same respect as Jay
if I came on stage in a fucking negligée everyday.
And Liz Claiborne,
devastated from breakup with Kate Hudson.
Wait, slut, your friends, what are they gonna say?
'Cause makeup ain't gonna cover
that eye that's seven-eighths of the way shut.
Peppersprayed with your face cut.
Made my bank like a lay up,
off these effing skanks on the way up.
Oh, bitch thinks she's heaven-sent.
It's evident that she ain't never been with seven inches.
Yes, I said seven, I measured it.
Seven inches from the floor.
While I'm standing on the fourth floor balcony
at the Sheraton while I'm stretching it.
Bitch, I'm a pimp so a limp dick is all you'll ever get.
So if she's hesitant to get the hint,
I'll bet you that I get the message sent
who she's messing with hella quick
when I tell a chick not to ever use sex as a weapon.
When I step in
and beat the wretched wench with a crescent wrench.
Existential detriment to a lesbian devil.
And the unpleasant stench of an estrogen level.
A separatist like a Chechnian rebel.
Impressionist with a pencil.
A pessimist, with his lips pressed against
the edge of this Red Bull.
Pedal to the metal
I'm rippin' this shit cause right away
I'll give it to a bitch like a pedestrian, deadly as ever.
You see what kind of effects she has on the opposite sex
when I push her flexible little sexy ass
through a plate of plexiglass.
SHADYXV as perplexing as the last fifteen years.
And I'm predicting my next relapse
when I spit these lyrics so don't look at me weird.
When I start shifting gears
and shit re-smears all over Britney Spears.
And these little Disney queers.
Who use chicks for beards?
Just made that up too.
Oh, and the Shady 2.0.
We wrote it in roman numerals
like they do for the Super Bowls.
'Cause it's supposed to confuse you hoes.
So flows lose you as usual, so juvenile.
2 year old when I go to the studio.
It's only music but don't be foolish though.
You don't know me through it, hoe,
but you can blow me to it though
in my homie's Buick.
Been known to lose it though
so if I overdo it, you drove me to it.
When I step in the vocal booth like I'm supposed to do,
and murder you on a fuckin' track like Tony Stewart.
In one take, if I fuck up and I don't redo it.
You couldn't sound grown on a beat
if you were moaning to it.
The day I don't say fuck you all,
you can throw me through it.
Rootinest-tootinest, shootin' this from the hip
with the sentiments.
Eminem isn't penning them for the women,
I'm an enemy to them.
And the epitome of an inconsiderate idiot,
but they consider me equivalent to chlamydia.
They tryna get rid of me, gadzooks.
But I stiggity stand for the figgity flag
of the United States and the freedom,
I distribute these raps through.
And if I catch you doing anything
hindering or prohibiting that
after I get me the tattoo of your lips on my ass
I'ma be literally pickin' up and deliberately whippin'
the Statue of Liberty at you, woo!
Fuck it.
Got it somewhere in there probably, I don't know.
(Marshall spits)
(pop sound effect)