There’s spite in the mic
That I hold in this hand.
Hmm… This hand. So old
And crippled, and decrepit—
Pathetic, and yet it’s like a relic.
I admire the scars from grippin'
The mic tight and rapping hard,
Spittin’ bars that were so hot they
Left the mic heated, my hand charred.
Ah, memories of being the top emcee,
Rockin’ clubs and parties and
Everything in between.
What am I’m gonna do now?
Be ample and proud
As I trample the crowd?
Scramble’em down
To an intangible compound.
Use a mandible that grounds
Fly cannibal hounds…
Dog eat dog.
Not once have I barked.
Quiet as a Savanna predator.
But the prey is all gone.
And with nothing to eat,
I’m no longer strong.
Doesn’t really matter to me.
I am just an aging emcee.
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