666 (Three Six Word Stories)
th1rt3en & Pharoahe Monch
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Lyrics
Eufreaka! Franklin, D. Roosevelt, Frank, Lynn
Collins, Ferguson, Rick, James, Brown, Ferguson
Son, come on son, th1rt3en, I'm on one
Two, three, four, five, Jackson's in action
My eyes are stained glass, look through, see the labor panes
When my brain goes into contractions
Crack pipes, Wesley Snipes, all over the city like stop-signs
Fall back, pull out the act right
While they catfight, I rap like parkin' parallel
With eighteen wheels in a snowstorm (jackknife!)
Too black, too strong, exactly that type
Will somebody please tell Father Time
To kiss my ass, pause, get it?
Then add that loss to his resume
Because he's no longer undefeated
Th1rt3en, I am the best that ever did it
When you travel back through time
You will lose twenty-four hours
For every hour you remain in the past, committed
I will complete a perfect final, full bracket
Water the roses on your grave
Then criticize that weak shit you were about to say
Before you fix your mouth to spit it
I bet you, I am the one like Mookie
But not Mookie Betts or Spike Lee in the movies
I move the crowd like I have Tourette's in the movies:
I hate ethiw people! Taggof! Taggof! Kcuf! Kcuf!
Slut! Whore! Fuck it, I voted for Trump!
Pumped shotgun! Bomb! Fire everybody, run!
DMC, Whodini with the Treacherous
Three-stripe Adidas, fat gold-chain necklace
Master of the guillotine, put their heads on the chopping block
Lucifer, killing machine, executioner!
Get 'em and then I'ma put 'em in the middle of a firing squad
Load and lock, pop... pop... pop...
Watch me waterboard 'em, peel their nails back, torture them
Cigarettes on the eyelids, scorchin' them to the pupil
To the iris, to the retina
Viruses silencin' 'em like the silencer, except I'm more violent
Fuck 'em, I mute their music when they're unplugged
Throwin' up a middle finger to the Future of these Young Thugs
Game of Thrones, goin' back to Hell again
Crack skeleton-bones, spawn black melanin
My attitude, free radical, Islam
Wrap cellophane around the mouths of these fuckboys
And keep tellin' 'em
Ugh, but they ain't tryna hear me though
The word'll get around in the hood like venereal
Merry-gos, aerial views of drug dealer burials
Crackhead, flat-screen TV's and cheap stereos
Swing, go ahead take a swing! (Go ahead!)
You a thug, you actin' like you wanna swing on me (Go ahead!)
But hesitant 'cause you don't know if I got the thing on me
By "thing" I mean, twenty-nine books of rhymes
Words are bullets, pages are clips that hold unlimited ammunition
I just committed the crime
The scene is not fictitious clips or quick depictions
Of cops taking pics of icepicks sticking out of the victims
But a detective taking notes
On the deceased Kelloggs, General Mills, Quaker Oats
And in the bathroom, scripted with love, as he got nearer
Three six-word stories, written in blood, on the mirror:
"I breathe like oxygen is expensive."
"Don't be offended, I am defensive."
"I love you. Take care, intensive."
I love you. Take care, intensive.
.evisnetni,erac ekaT .uoy evol I
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.evisnetni,erac ekaT .uoy evol I
.evisnetni,erac ekaT .uoy evol I
.evisnetni,erac ekaT .uoy evol I