Traitor’s Delight

From: [email protected] (Marilyn Walker) Subject: >>(*_*)>> J O H N D O E <<(*_*)<< EAsT/WEsT RHYMEs Date: 1995/06/30 organization: Hooked newsgroups: rec.music.hip-hop I hate repeating myself, but this is for all the kids who missed it on alt.rap (I’ll cross-post from now on) JOHN DOE’s Almighty Bicoastal Armegaddon Starchild Flow With Extra Sprinkles On Top & Sides I represent the west don’t be mislead by that other shit 20 P-Funk samples and they think they’re from the mother ship G-Funk? Come on y’all, I smother it Don’t get me wrong P-Funk gets mad props and hollars Their thought and hard work is what’s bringing suckers dollars I abolish the stereotypes they’ve brought upon us I’ve been schooled in the east and graduated with honors Word is bond, it’s now the west where I reside I maintain my stance while my peirs subside When the white exec’s offered E-40 complied He spits words fast with verses and styles dead like hurses He can’t write for shit so he dribbles drabbles and babbles on Off pace with the wack beats that he’s rapping on Sounding like a drum machine clapping on, his tracks He’s strapped with a rubber plated cardboard 22 Biting his rhymes, he gets frightened when I’m sending you Bending you with pro-verbs he’s got commercial ad-verbs And just for the radio he takes out the bad words Play it backwords, and theres still no kind of message Beats are casio keybord, not phat but compressed it’s Kind of stupid aint it? Don’t debate it 40’s album’s got more filling than a danish I’ll stab his pressure points like Sydney Poitier doing acupuncture Teach a cop to fly when I see a wacker junction The click is like a whole crew of whining Horshack’s Money money money and that’s they go for, black Contradicting like muslims with terret syndrome 40’s wack crew’s gonna be left smoking indo in limbo His off beat styles sound so simple He’s just a businessman when it comes down to the mental Orientation lacing catchphrases in with his wack word placement All these crew’s screaming “real” are faker than Master Ace Inc. I’m replacing what I face because I’m tre bien Too $hort is wacker than Marin county caucasians Ambitions shrink when crews catch a glimps Of an intellegent MC smashing empty minded pimps Too $hort is a simple Sucker like Kool J but without the dimples John Doe flows like the wind blows Too $hort is choppy flopping over sloppy overused brakes Never done in two takes; modulated and bull faced I’ve never seen an uglier pimp daddy Probably impotent so lets call him the limp laddy Looking like a bald headed black Letterman I represent Chocolate City like the Jeffersons Too $hort? That’s what you’re ex-girl told you She had a thicker mustache than Sister Soljah Simplistic sexist linguistics make me scold you With rhymes packing more power than coffee made by Foldgers It’s time somebody lays down the law It’s time he drops the mic and pulls up his ripped drawers How many times can you whine about your money and whores? Close your jaws before you speak and make me laugh This is a test like a canary in a mine shaft I know he’ll fold faster than The Flash at a laundry mat His rhyming is repeditive; far from fascinating Now he’s got his hands full like Long Dong Silvers masturbating My words are sharp like a knife lacerating His wack ass, no debate is intended If you step to the mic either leave it wrecked or lend it To the next man a new proffession is recommended $hort Dog does hip hop no glory Wack like Dr Dre and his made-up gangster stories Sellout house nigga living honkey dory Saying he’s broke in his own pool doing laps All these playground MC’s fall off like scabs Skills disappear like alaka abracadab Far from fabulous and his flow is kind of muddy Before you name yourself “doctor”, you should study I heard that him and Snoop are very best butt budies And look at Warren G, no skills still got an album Sucking his brothers nuts long enough and he allowed him Dr Dre’s a disgrace selling out to the talcolm He’ll be left dead and naked in the outcome Word to brother Malcolm Dre shirts and hat’s when will we see his cereal? Words of ignorance screaming claiming he’s imperial Those wack metaphores aint even demo tape material When NWA broke up I rejoiced It must be all the Ide’s 6-packs sacks and joints Cause in all his years of rhyming I’ve still never heard a point All he know’s how to do is act the fool and exploit Black people, he’s see-through Glorifying evil, filthly like swine’s fecal Matter my rhymes make ego’s splatter Bladders burst when I wreck shop like Patty Hearst Snoop is wacker than hackey sack attacked he defends But where will he go when trancended? He fell behind before Marley Marl’s career ended Bended, fixed, mended and lended a dope beat His bland vocals still choke hold his own discrete demise It’s no suprise his rise is waning Can’t be god for 3 years without updating or maintaining Atomic Dog can only be sampled so many times He does it no justice with those Grade Z petty rhymes You got your money on like Ray Love now go the fuck away He “got no love for girls” but I wont blast him cause he’s gay I bust up his ego strictly due to his display And his association with the white owned label called Death Row Make a buck and making 10 for Bubba Jimmy Jethrow Exploitation that’s been spread from the plantation To the so called “black radio stations” test my patients Spreading stereotypes to give a chuckle to caucasians So many follow that path it’s just amazing That you see their thuggish Bone asses on a Panther soundtrack Bippity zibbety shit’s fast but their beats and voices sound wack Kids got the nuts that a Mounds packs; none Talking like they’re gangsters but they don’t pack guns Glorifying gangbanging; making it look fun Once again giving the white man a chuckle When they learn to stop the suckle under pressure they’ll just buckle Cause once you’ve sold your soul took their mold and gone gold Your words will have been told and you’ll receive real brother’s scolds It’s dirty money all these “gangsta” kids are making Exploit their fellow man taking deals with hand shaking “Buyaka” like a Jamaican but they’re really just faking At this point it’s on a downfall like a blind ground hog NWA, I wish the public never found y’all Cause Just-Ice on a hot day could drown y’all I flow medium fast smashing sassafrass trash Every time I drop a demo my tracks give kids whiplash Twenty crackhead’s couldn’t hit that But don’t try to spit that, kid Because I’ll know that you bit that MC’s these days only spit babble and such Nice & Smooth unravled Slick Rick lost his touch Teeth are the only way in which the Wu get buck Pop dissing hipocrites acting hard by saying “fuck” If you want dope metaphores in hordes, you’re out of luck Acting crazy don’t amaze me Method Man’s third eye is lazy If he thinks 36 gimmiks are ever gonna make me Buy his wack album laced with catchphrase lines And look, some Dirty Bastard’s biting Buster’s phat rhymes “No Hooks” IS the hook, care to look and you’ll find Like the O-Jays, money is why it’s designed Collaborating with SWV and Shaquile Still they continue to diss pop, fake gold teeth yelling “real” Attaining mass appeal while biting like a meal I don’t follow blind crowds, like Just-Ice said “That The Way I Feel” Every line’s a punch line MC’s say it’s lunch time Taking bites from my precise third snake eye like dice Revealed later not as men but merely as mice Hip Hop’s christ comes forth Weak MC’s get spliced while kings get dwarfed Fronting on freestyles can’t compare to these styles “Represent the East” but lay face down in the weak pile Their words inch along mine count letters for each mile A Buster Rhymes biting sucker’s never gonna make ME smile They would if they could but they can’t so they wont Write a funky rhyme without a hundred thousand quotes Just wait a couple years and like the titanic The whole crew is gonna panic and be sunk in the Atlantic Self explanitory stories because depth is too difficult I’m flinging off their Wu styles with force like centripetal I don’t play around with mystical mic’s tikes or dykes Funkmaster Fle
x “freestyles” were pre-writes My plight is to ignite a movement of tight shit To raise subterranian standards into ‘hype shit’ Like back in the day when Last Poet’s got it going They lit a bon-fire but without even knowing These days the embers are barely even glowing MC’s claim phat but only show molasses flowing It’s time to prove by showing all these dope styles they speak of Or the industry’ll move on; their career’ll meet the reaper I’m tired of hearing Biggie on my big bass speakers He fell off long ago like Queen Latifa, now he’s smoking reefer Here’s a Warning, don’t write songs about your beeper Talking like a pimp but he’s married, hairy derrier Nasty ass lazy eye, if he’s a ‘player’ I’m a terrier Imagine what his wife must look like, that’s even scarier He stole his name from the west, bigger breasts on his chest Than the honey on his left in that video I’m tired of hearing that he’s got more money than Arseneo It’s not even funny and yes my disses are intentional Beats don’t deserve mention, Puffy Combs is wack Just for bringing us Craig Mack the kid deserves mad smacks “Who’s The Man” was kind of phat with “Party And Bullshit” But Biggie changed up and now-a-days he can’t pull shit On Who’s The Man he was dope, rougher and quicker I’m not trying to bicker, but I can’t respect a liquer sipper advertising Ide’s with ice I guess the weak willed man can be enticed with any price These days he’s blander than cold beans and rice Success thanks to the Source riding his jock like a horse Saying that he’s phat’s a fairytale like the Norse Standards need to be inforced with force Or else the next thing you know Masta Ace’ll go on tour He used to have skills then he added the I.N.C. Now he’s spinning bass beats mixed with a whining beep Remember “Me And The Biz”? He was sharper than a lion’s teeth Marly’s downfall was graphic, now he’s fake like plastic His simple rhymes are crafted to make money for the grafted While he collects the table scraps and stays satisfied Move’s like those he’s made can never be gratified Remember “Battle In Brooklyn”? Now his shit is sanitized Talking about blunts like Cypress Hill or Channel Live Original kids will eat the man alive Analized, his lyrics only go knee deep He make’s-believe about the hood like Mr McPhealy Putting me to sleep like a matress made by Sealy That wack bass kicks like Pele while he waits for his pay day When it comes to kicking rhymes, Masta Ace has frail legs If they wanna produce, duck MC’s should lay eggs And stay away from the chrome microphone If you have nothing to say, step off; I don’t condone Repeating the same old shit like part 2 of Home Alone I never roam alone, but I’m not down with Mobb Deep Every song they make is a repeat with a new beat Never really saying nothing ending sounding incomplete Offend John Doe, meet your resounding defeat Keith Murray’s vocab can’t compare to the Fugees’ Nonsense can’t amuse con-fuse or lose me I swing lines like Bootsie blowing up like an uzi Hitting targets on the head causing contusions Confusing crews in two’s and fours Flowing like acne covered pus poors Leaving one time wonders giving bus tours Words in lines bust jaws When bitten, these lines remove the dust that crusts yours I’m much more, than merely a master In fact I’m faster than the last flash flood disaster Bastards like House Of Pain are left with their rep’s wrecked Insurance is collected before the mic is even checked Inspect my deck and like Gza get your neck seperated Depart for the same reason MC Bootie never made it I run through gold artists like aqua regia I wreck like Ced Gee, a key competitor Speaking without letting up from my third eye’s retina John Doe the X the next; the etcetera ——————————————————————– O O O ( ) O J O H N D O E O O ——————————————————————–

Richard Starr is a managing editor at The Weekly Standard.