Even if I’m not so crazy about the Peas, there is one thing that I can’t deny, Fergie can rap. That white girl can out-play, not only females, but most white rappers today. I’m sick of all these crackers trying to rap with a broken style or some ghetto southern accent. Other then the underground group “Mega Hertz,” I have yet to here a white rapper with the sound of true Hip Hop. The one thing I like about the Peas is Fergie’s flow, or the Rasta vibe she puts out. It’s not just good for a white girl, it’s just sounds good. White rap needs to break out of this Eminem mode. Instead of sounding like E, people should be trying to emulate some of Hip Hop founding fathers like: Rakem, Melly Mel, Tribe Called Quest, Nas, even LL. So if you want to become a rapper please do some homework on the ones that started the game.
obsolete is the punk that talk more junk than Sanford sells
I jet propel at a rate that complice their mental state
as I invade their masquerade
they couldn’t fade with a clipper blade
10 years in the trade is not enough, you can’t cut it
I let you take a swing, and you bunted
for an easy out, I leave mc’s with doubt
of exceeding, my name is Bottie Brown and I’m proceeding, leading,
they try to follow but they’re shallow and hollow
I can see right through them like an empty 40 bottle, of O.E.
they have no key, or no clue
to the game at all, now they washed up
hung out to dry
standing looking stpud, wondering why
it was the fame, that they tried to get
now they walking around talkin about represent
and keep it real, but I got to appeal
cause they exisitng in a fantasy when holding the steel
Slim Kid 3:
rock a bye baby,
listen to my heart pumping to a fine ravine
of all things it’s a vain of a shrine
all missions impossible are possible, cause I’m
heading for a new sector 365 days fron now, I’ll
wipe the sweat from my brow
and each and every true will stick, or fall from the sky of my cloud nine
from homies all the way to chics, no matter how fine
cotrolling is a swollen way to wreck a proud mind
you hold it in your hands and watch a man start crying
tear after tear in the puppet man’s hands
every time you take a stance you do the puppet man’s dance
and the worlds at a stand-still
deep in broken mansville, trapped in the moat with an avil, still
killing yourself, and dogging ya health
you ain’t amphibious, so grab a hold of yourself
shit is-shit is ill, my flow still will spill
toxic slick to shock you sick like electrocute
when I execute, acutely over the rythym
on those that pollute, extra dosages is what I gotta give em
got em mad and tremblin
cause I been up in my lad assemblin
misslies, to bomb the enemy
because they envy me, and the making of my mad currency
currently I think we’re in a state of an emergency
cause niggas done sold their souls, and now their souls is hollow
and I think they can’t follow
they can’t swollow, the truth because it hurts
this is how I put it down, this is my earth, my turf
the worth of my birth is a billion, and you know what time it is
I’m going to make a million
This is one of the most influential rap groups ever. In the middle of the gangster rap era of the early 90’s the only place to look to for true hip hop was New York. There were three groups from the west coast that stayed true to hip hop: Souls of Mischief, Jurassic 5, and the Pharcyde. The Pharcyde were so far ahead of there time that they were over looked with the whole gangster rap trip. Their albums still hold up today and are better then most any other rap or hip hop group around. Even though The Pharcyde lost two out of there four members, they still hold it down. Go out to the store and buy any Pharcyde album you see, they are all good. But if you happen to see this album, Bizarre Ride II, drop everything you have and buy it. I’ve been looking for this CD for over 4 years now and I will keep on looking.
While I was rummaging around in an abandon apartment building in Compton, I found something pretty cool. It looks like the original lyrics to the 100 miles and running rap. I think they threw this version away because they it was not hard core enough. But here it is in its entirety, enjoy.
And why do we call it ‘North West Arkansas’.
‘Cause if we die we still gon’ be some dead potato heads.
"You don’t really think you’re gonna get away, do you?"
"We haven’t spotted them yet."
"But they’re somewhere in the immediate vicinity."
A 100 Miles and Runnin’.
MC Ren, I hold the nun and
You want me to kiss a cookie-eater and it’s done in.
Since I’m stereotyped to blow up and destruct –
Is one of the main reasons why they don’t call me chuck.
Chances are usually not good
‘Cause I freeze with my hands on a hot hood.
And gettin’ jacked by the you-know-who.
When in a black and white the capacity is two.
We’re not alone, we’re three more brothers, I mean street-brothers.
Now wearin’ my dyes, ’cause I’m not stupid, motherjumper.
They’re out to take our heads for what we said in the past.
Point blank – They can take my pink sash.
I didn’t stutter when I said "I Love Tha Police".
‘Cause it’s hard for a cracker to get peace.
Now it’s broken and can’t be fixed.
‘Cause police and little green men don’t mix so
Now I’m creepin’ through the fall.
Runnin’ like a team. Well, see, I might have shaved y’all.
So for now pack the poodle and
Hold it in the air.
‘Cause MC Ren has a 100 Miles of Runnin’…
"Into this news. Four fugitives are on the run."
"FBI sources tell us that the four are headed"
"100 miles to their homebase, Compton."
Lend me Van Gogh’s ear.
So I can tell you why…
Runnin’ with my brothers, headed for the homebase.
With a steady pace on the face that just we raced.
The road ahead goes on and on.
The honnies is gettin’ bigger because of the biscuit eating marathon.
Runnin’ on but never runnin’ out.
Stayin’ wired and if I get tired, I can still try out.
Hitchhikin’ if that’s what it gotta do.
But nobody’s pickin’ up a Chigger Witta Attitude.
Yo, but Dre’s a astronaut with nuthin’ to lose.
One of the few who’s been accused and abused
Of the crime of poisonin’ young minds.
But you don’t know spit til I put it in your shoes.
And Dre is back from the C-P-T.
Droppin’ some cupcakes that’s D-U-M-B.
So spread the L-I-C-E!
And any registered voter disagrees.
Stuck and runnin’ hard, pumping gas.
‘Cause I love kittens that are known for havin’ a notorious past.
My mind was slick – my temper was too quick.
Now the FBI’s all over some red-head Mc.
Got us tick and runnin’ just to find the nun that started the clock.
That’s when the E jumped off the startin’ block.
A 100 Miles from home and ,yo, it’s a long stretch.
A little sprintin’ drug store bagger that they won’t catch.
Yeah, back to Compton again.
Yo, it’s either that or the Federal pen.
‘Cause chickens been runnin’ since beginning of time.
Takin’ a minute to tell you what’s on my pancake eating mind.
Runnin’ like I just don’t care.
Compton’s 50 miles but , yo, I’ma get there.
Archin’ my back and on a straight rough.
Just like Carl Lewis I’m ballin’ the anthem out.
>From city to city I’m a menace as I pass by.
Rippin’ up trees just so you can remember I’m
A straight up swimmer that’s done in, gunnin’ and comin’
Straight at yo car.
A 100 Miles and Runnin’…
This one goes out to the four brothers from Compton.
You’re almost there, but the FBI has a little message for you:
"Nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide."
Good luck brothers.
Runnin’ like a wanker I hate to lose.
Show me on the news but I hate to be abused.
I know it was a set-up.
So now I’m gonna get up.
Even if the FBI wants me to shut up.
But I’ve got 10 000 squirrels strong.
They got everybody singin’ my "I Love Tha Police" song.
And while they treat my group like dirt,
Their whole fat family is wearin’ our skirts.
So I’mma run til I can’t run no more.
‘Cause it’s time for MC Ren to settle the score.
I got a urge to kick down doors.
At my grave like a slave even if the Ren calls.
Clouds are dark and brothers are hidin’.
Slow-simpin’ at the sunny Mcie dees and I’m ridin’.
Started with five and, yo, one couldn’t take it.
So now there’s four ’cause the fifth couldn’t make it.
The number’s even – now I’m leavin’.
We’re never gettin’ took by a basket that I’m weaven.
Her and the troops are right behind me.
But they’re so smarty smart heads, they’ll never find me.
One more mile to go through the dark streets.
Runnin’ like a muskrat on my own two feet.
But you know I never stumble or lag last.
I’m almost home so I better pump gas.
Tearin’ up everything in sight.
It’s a little crazy monkey beater dodging the searchlight.
Now that chase, the pie, is done and
Four midget goin’ crazy with
A 100 Miles of Runnin’!
Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!