I don’t want to be like Eminem,
I wouldn’t wish his life on him
I don’t wanna be a super star
I wouldn’t even buy a Jaguar

I speak all those forgotten truths in the misty, distant dark
so I’m not another white-bread battle rhyming Lois and Clark

White to the core, nothing less or else more
Raised up in the hills, land locked away from the pills
Lost in my own misdirection, locked in steel fabricated correction

Snowflake world, I truly think not
I’m so white, The brothers call me Spot.

White bred classical loving dork
More like the other white meat, pork.

How you stop 5 white guys from rape?
Toss them a porno tape…

Diss on me, and I know the deeper three fold
so them battle rhymes you got are getting kindah old…
Yeah, I can’t dance, oh ok maybe I can
but it’s be a dance that only I’d probably understand…

Maybe my dick’s the size of a pinky
and my pet name for it is ‘Dinky’
Maybe I smell like a dog when I’m wet
What do you expect when that’s the closest you ever get?

Maybe I can’t flow, or I just don’t know
the ability to let go, without spitting it slow
Maybe it’s because I’m skilled
but I’m not the one who’s overly thrilled
I’ve been doing this thing for years
against all my family’s worst fears
against my strain to hold back the tears
and go out and drink all those beers..
I’d drink for the rest of my life to ease this curse
because everyday it just seems to get worse

I cry my self to sleep in the dark every night,
because I cant think of anything else to write.

I hide in these drunken parables
and wake up under random tables
Roaches and butts stuck to my face
and then you bitch about, being out of place.

I hide in the closets of your submissive suburbs
where the road’s dirt, with the drop off ditches for curbs

White angst like you’ve never seen before
so before I begin, you better show me the door..
Get me out of here, before I raise a ruckus
and show the difference between the two of us

Show that maybe your mad, and so am I
but the worlds more fucked up in my eye.
You always seem to see what you want, I happen to see it deep down
You see a steaming ghetto, I see someone’s getting played the clown.
Souls brimming to the boiling point
all down to blazing up to this joint.

Maybe anger is the thing we’ve most come to cherish
because you don’t see our inner happiness when we perish

Street sweepers slinging rocks to pelt me in the night
where I have to walk in the shadows, out of sight
Hiding my message in the Ethernet of drugs and chaos
while I make plans for corporate complaints on my boss

With your lines about your latest slick trick
Telling everyone how she sucked your dick
Why stretch the lines to confound one another
with lines about you going to fuck over your mother…

Scripted verses in a formulated pop-culture plan
with words so big, you can’t even understand

Slinging rocks, knots and sacks in an imaginary world
where you already got an illusionary, willing girl…
Not anywhere on a place I like to call Earth
but I guess that just shows what I’m really worth.

I wont bullshit the peep’s about my lifestyle
or fake my life in a movie called 8 mile
I won’t bring up my moms and her problems
make up another rhyme about my Tan Leather Timbs..
I’ll speak it real and down to the heart
and ya’ll hear my brothers tell me, not to start.

I’ll go old school on you like the Hair Bear’s
Just to get a roomful of your vacant stares
Back when it was Tossing Quarters
and watching the starting skate boarders
Seatbelts were usually optional
Always heading to the strip mall

I aint a thug, but I’ll steal all your shit just the same
cuz there isn’t any shame in this broke ass white-boy game.

You all speak of glorious battle plans
While I wash life with my hands
I pay my respect to the elders
The slick Rick’s, The GM Flash
The true story tellers
Not the death metal yellers

I see it all through these brown eyes
so don’t try to fool me with your racist disguise
Your record label prewritten subscripted battles
and on everyone else it cries about and tattles.

You’re the new school tyke, off playing hooky
I’m old school like Psyche and under-roo nookie

I give props to the one inspired by the fore fathers
not the newbie recreational prime-timed Marshall Mathers

Intoxication in proliferation, to escape this lost sensation
Of my self sacrifice of inner mediation and self-medication
Justification at my animation of retaliation to the administration

Lost proverbs in the good book of lies that I’ve come to despise
but I can’t always hide the truth from your eyes.

02/23/2002

Author's Note: This is a mish-mash of battlework that I came up with while working with the idea's of comming up with freeverse work for battles.. It's not all that great, but I do love some lines in thise, hence why it's even here... maybe you'll see what Im talking about.

Posted on 04/14/2003
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Howard