i don't even really have to rap
my nigga,
it's about if you can talk good.

it's about if you can work a simple hustle.
turning rap insight into economic muscle
ride the bourgeois gristle like a surfboard
Nocando's my nigga til we dirtpoor
so we do the math and we always carry clipboards

i'm trying to strip myself of myself
and be a mirror for someone else
i'm trying to strip myself of myself
and be a mirror for someone else

i don't even really have to rap
my nigga,
it's about if you can talk good.

he raps like there's no sense to be made.
he raps like the eldest sap of the everglades.
his raps move heat like thermostats adjusting centigrades.
he raps with the grace of an old man shining his grandson's shoes.
he raps like a master painter who's only chosing to use the blues.
he reportedly raps from a dark apartment
quarterly
whole heartedly clutching
the recorder to catch
the nuzzled portions of organs
he'd been choking on.
when he raps everyone everywhere is always electrified
and no one would really mind if they were next to die.
he only raps for a good reason
and getting rich isn't one of those.
he scribbles raps furiously from a little bungalow
and i been there.

i feel inclined to rhyme
i'm so inclined
(matters of process
become matters of place)

parse the good from the nonsense
never let the form dictate what's the content.
it's never art for art's sake
despite whatever the corpse of a marxist thinks
thinking, dwelling, building
sinking, swelling, filling
shrinking selling movements
jinxed routine is useless
glimpses of misgivings for the stupid.
i guess i'm stupid

following a rule is just too hard for me
it's hardly me.


Lyrics submitted by jtk1993

song about a raygunn (an ode to Driver) song meanings
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