“Home”
CRASHprez
All my bredren lived in Nigga Heaven
Independence sold separate, ain’t no gated entrance
Graze the tension should you venture past a pay and pension
Ask too many questions, trade ya pain up for a wasted blessing
Covet every pot you piss in, piss on ya neighbors
Sell yourself they got a difference, diss all ya flavors
I was balking how a kid did
Walkman made the disc skip
Khaki my meniscus
Rappin’ over Sickfit
Diggin’ in a callous on my fists
Tabletop, 8 o’clock, freestylin’ over Clipse
Ass gettin’ whipped in the cypher
Ain’t no chance if you had wack shit to spit
Felt the fire in me gettin’ higher
Ask Lil Chris
Couldn’t pass Lil Chris
Baldhead from alopecia
7th grade, we made a tape
Teacher let me have some features
Chris got a solo
Ye rocked a Pink Polo, and niggas said no homo
Defcee
I never forgot where home plate is: writin records
in cold basements. So anxious–less genuine,
and more ‘08ish. Our own worst public enemies,
of course radio won’t play it.
Slept through the Night of the Living Clout Hounds.
Leapt into ciphers and kicked a roundhouse.
Hated in their verse, heavy handed, bitter, and raw,
but they’re graded on a curve, fam. I been on my job.
What they thought they earned a W for? Learned
young: keys open doors even when they’re under the floor.
Muscles are sore from pressin the issue that covered their fall.
They hit the canvas. We attack it with a brush and a saw.
Today’s news written in bubble letters with double edges.
Used to think there was nothin better than nothin, ever.
Oops, that’s TMI like fruit from trees in Eden’s eye
Dug for seeds inside and crumbled leaves to season rhymes.
