once upon a time there lived a little bad bitch.

welcome to detroit. this is the BET, shady 2.0 cypher 2011 …. myself, slaughterhouse, & yelawolf.

white dog,— thank you cracker man— get ’em!

—let’s get ‘em….

yo— put these muthafuckas in a box & i’ll send ‘em away. put ‘em in a gray ‘llac & pop the trunk, hey, throw ‘em in the back, jack, ha! dig ’em a grave. put a brick inside that xerox when i print ’em a page— movin’ keys, i can’t relate, ‘cause i live in a cage. i throw up the A, i’ll take ‘em to school, i’ll give them a grade: an easy E for effort— that’s the WWA: white with an attitude, alphabet soup is on my plate. all i got is z’s, they sleepin’ on me, I can’t get ‘em awake! i spoon feed ’em a sound, in a room full of deceivers & clowns who believe in making it rain, ‘cause all they see is the clouds. and i watch from the couch of the VIP like a potato with a bunch of meatheads, like fuck it, i’ll just feed ‘em a cow. plenty of white boys to pick from this year, but before you pick a pepper, you better pick up your heater, ‘cause even peter piper could pick up a mic, but what it’s like to pick a fight with me is like putting nikes on a cheetah— better speed up!— or at least in my case, adidas. i’m out this bitch, drinkin’ sprite by the two-litre— holler…. shady records.

—uh….

—now, i need the scratch to get me amped…. 

—ayo…. wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait….— i’m ‘bout to get ‘em…. — here you go….—okay, go….—yeah, wait….—okay.

—i’m ‘bout to get ‘em…. here we go.

say i’m from the new school, i’ma say check your tone & watch your mouth. if they teachin’ how to dougie, i’m condoning droppin’ out. forced to wild, y’all birthed me then gave me up; i just perfected being hip hop’s foster child. now check it: don’t blame y’all for being trash; fans are coppin’ it. the radio’s the crime scene, the masses are the hostages. in my youth, i’d throw shots, the fad was dodging it— i’m grown: i ain’t watching the throne, i’m sabotagin’ it. you see that 4-headed monster in the storm looms? snipe ’em from a distance: the scope got a long zoom. you super mario thugs is in the wrong room. gotta figure here, you won’t get bigger if you on ‘shrooms.

if it was left to me, i’d revive what the game be ’bout; i’da took the wine outta amy house. enough raps from you scrub cats ‘bout cockin’ a snub back— wayne couldn’t teach me how to love that. but i got this chick from uptown, she my summer bunny. both parents broke, but she come from money. think my bread is her paper to burn, so i lock her out, and now she doubt david is stern. she’s so bad, i make her hit the telly from a taxi, then dead her in the holiday inn— learn’t that from max b. that’s why the haters envy, kinda wanna send me llamas; i made it right before they eyes like i was benihanas. is it me, or is what i’m hearin’ just pitiful? airwaves the same, now the stereo’s typical.

my skin’s thick, so the critics ignored; so unafraid to die, you’d think i did it before. the boy’s rodman with the trash talk; magic or walt with the black ball, way i bounce off the asphalt with cat paws. glass jaw, hood of your mask will be the blackfoot with no passport. body be found in a mansion, in one of my trapdoors. if punks had award, you status whores categore probably be that of awards between michael rappaport and kenny latimore. i know hip hop’s alive and well; if it died, you other crews wouldn’t survive the smell.

—ladies & gentlemen….

—ya scared now?
—make that face at ‘em dawg….
—crooked i…. get ‘em….

i spot a victim, the plot’ll thicken when the clock is tickin’. i caught him slippin’, i gotta give him a shot; i hit him with proper spittin’, hottest writtens and compositions, so competition’s a contradiction. somebody mention they got it crooked; highly fiction— we probably different; got gotti henchmen opposition, i’ll body quick as bugatti engines. i’m on a mission to get richer, the sickest lyric kicker, diggin’ a ditch for different spitters— weak lyricists get disfigured. sip liquor, spit like a sick mixture of notorious, pun & L, get the big picture? the poster? i’ll roast ya; my mind so deadly it’s just like the beanie is close to a holster. it’s over. control my whole coastal region like i’m supposed to; flow is going postal even— open season, heart close to freezing— ruthless as eazy, nigga; approach, i’m squeezing, believe me— dopest westcoaster breathin’, so most’ya hope i’m vegan— nope, i’m beefin’. rappers need to keep it trill, give me a beat to kill, too many people still eatin’ sleepin’ pills— people sleepin’ on my ether skills. and y’all ain’t even real. you ‘bout to die in this cypher; before you die, you should do the jada & leave a will…. for real.

-yaowa…. yaowa.

i ain’t a rap dude, i’m a dude who rap. before this, i was movin’ crack. them killers y’all become when y’all rhyme, i salute and dap & if i blink, they’ll remove your snaps— you ain’t cool, you wack with your foolish act; skinny jeans don’t mean your ass shoot, it means your booty claps— heh heh! don’t play, like tyler perry. this the slaughterhouse of pain— flow brown, tight & heavy. when it come to 16’s, i’m a fiend, seen in the studio near a needle with a mean lean, probably writin’ bars to nas’ ‘thief’s theme,’ gettin’ my yaowa on— man, all these olajuwons— we the dream team. this is an all day slaughter— they fiendin’ for us to break like beyoncé’s water. the four quarters doing all the eatin’ & y’all gotta know why i made the cut, i’m puerto rican. ortiz keep they fire ready, and tryna put me out’s like tryna steal a transvestite from eddie.

—hahahaha….

—whoo!

—eh…. eh….

—ayo….

—yeah joe?

—‘aight, go ‘head, rap.

—lyrical miracle!

i’m do or die dope & you can make the sticker sittin’ on the door of that phantom your suicide note. —hi rihanna…. is nicki livin’ with you? let me know so i can buy binoculars and telescopes. hi rihanna…. i don’t need to know you better; you tell me you love my music again? we go together. ‘bye rihanna….— now back to y’all fools: we rock out like the outside of a guitar school. thousand dollar frames, i prefer to see the world through. don’t ask me nothin’ ‘bout budden; i beat my girl too. you ask me why do I keep her? i say it’s cheaper to. that’s why i ride around in a rolls like wiz khalifa do. rappers, i’m your daddy. i tell you straight as this: you don’t kill, but your father will like jayden smith.

i tell you like i tell my spanish chick: you fly, but i ain’t going down on no landing strip. so get your wax on like daniel san or i’ma hafta run like de la hoya in drag when cameras come. point out the greatest rapper alive, i’ll headshot ’em; smack his girl on the butt & buy her some red bottom. bring every deceased rapper back to see his wife while i’m cyber-sexing with jessica alba via skype. i’m on my d-boy, deebo thing— spiritual steelo swing like cee-lo green. get out the camera with your B roll bling— you know your flow is wack— we cornered the market like a wal-mart in a cul-de-sac. yeah, this is what two million singles sold, & the album is gold look like without havin’ to sell your soul. nigga….

—uh….

—yo…. oh wait….—shady, you betta get ‘em, too—  wait…. go ‘head….

—you the boss though, you betta get ‘em….

—wait, can i rap?

—you the boss though, you betta get ‘em….

— you betta represent.

—ayo…. lyrical miracle spiritual individual criminal subliminal in your swimming pool—booooooo-hooo-hooo!— metaphysic….— oh!

—c’mon man, kick that shit i wrote you.

—drop it!

—kick that shit i wrote that one time, that john blaze shit….

you ‘bout to see peace destroyed, it’ll never be restored when i unleash these beastly hordes on your CD stores. wanna stop it? you gon’ need a priest, at least three swords, a license to ill from the beastie boys, three ouija boards, a squeegee & please be warned: don’t ask what the squeegee’s for, or the holy water— acid raps that’ll eat these floors; eat a hole in a rhyme book— you see these horns? and as for me, you ask when i’m gone, will he be mourned….? is puke luke warm? should casey anthony do porn? can that chick fit a newborn dead baby inside a frickin’ shoebox with a shoehorn & smothered in chloroform so she can go get her groove on? can she duct tape and velcro a foetus? joell, yo, tell joe I need his empty box from his old shell-toed adidas so I can put these babies in the foetal position— they’re getting elbows to the penis. yeah, big deal; i took some little kid’s big wheel and spit in his frickin’ big kids meal— quit tryna bite me & pinch, you wench, sit still! did you just put your six-inch heel through my benz windshield!? is it dust we ’bout to kick up? can yelawolf fit a fifth of rum in a big cup between the stick shift in his friggin’ pickup & drink like a hick redneck hillbilly will ‘til he gets hicc-UPs?

flippin’ the script up like mike vick gettin’ bit in his junk by a pit— yup, i’m a sick pup. i’d be a horrible magician, ‘cause i’ll fuck a trick up. fix your lips up to say somethin’ fly, or zip up. A B, let’s C, you said you were gonna do X-Y-Z ‘til you fuck around and get dropped like an E when you add an I-N-G; don’t put a K in front of that though, when i MC—  ‘cause i’m not the king of the microphone booth, it’s more like a phone booth; superman in this bitch, kryptonite won’t do. it gives me more power. i bump the fat boys & eat rat poison, take meteor showers.

fresh outta the mental hospital & me not flossin’ a middle finger while i hop in a mosh pit’d be like nas doing gospel or R&B— you crazy? me, pushing up daisies? that thought is impossible as if flashing across the news: posdnuos was caught with a prostitute with a huge johnson, boobs and a monstrous tube of lube & a bra, some boots, some panties & a aqua blue mazda, swallowin’ a popsicle, playin’ tonsil pool. so kill the rumours, it ain’t happenin’; i’ma rap ‘til i’m fossil fuel.

(i cannot make out much, but this i do recall: spring had yet struck the stones while we climbed the institution walls from the inside out. they allowed us outdoors for an hour a day with careful supervision & that was never enough. my most pretty ones— of angelic hue or chestnut curl tumble from the forehead, with bone structure fashioned of diamond as if to cut through glass— we stationed ourselves together. the other, our follower, is less known, though he did seem once to think he had me made for himself. this one— most solitary, of the first order & comparable to myself only in our similar youth— produced the impression in which did try to fit the last [as if they all become one another; as if unable to become themselves]—he who did outdo the one just gone only for his implacable desperation— irreproachable in its innocence— though could never approach latest inhumanity.

[for clarity: i have never wished myself more passed away. this one has brought both spiritual & physical defilement truer than i’ve ever known. most miserable monster crawled out from under children’s beds and into them; slipped between the blankets & the bed sheets for the diary she did once keep beneath her pillow—words were willed to fairyland as if in exchange for a quarter; merciless monster polished off her every page— spat on them!— & left her with not a thing. what merit was there, i cannot tell, but that this spook subsisted only off her shivers & if she gave them no further, it would have fallen below the lids. but hungry, still, for more of her unimpeachable kindness—that which is symptomatic of latent childhood; stolen— was this wrathful wraith; for disappearing little girls into overwhelming emptiness, overwhelming dearth of anything at all— though all parties inquired of had said she’d run away from home.]

he tried to hang himself in his closet with a shoe lace, though we had thought they’d taken away all of which we could use for suicide. it was not that bad. and, realising the impossibility of the task— of ending my life with his own— had resolved for the latest arrival, though she did not speak. jill scowled at her, the new one, when she perched away from us in the great room— as it was called by them, perhaps, to simulate the look of life; better, to deny that which is implicit in institutional gloom— but he didn’t seem to care.

she sat cross-legged in her chair. she giggled to herself. she looked through the television. she chewed her hair. i heard later, perhaps from one of my angels, that she heard voices. i could not believe it then. jill— who came on a gurney, screaming, in the middle of the night & pounded the walls of the adjacent room, as if sleep wasn’t already hard enough to find— had never liked his weakness & wouldn’t acknowledge him for it, which is to say, she wished them well.

we all watched when he approached her, unfazed by her otherworldliness— how she seemed to hang in the balance between here & the beyond. when he spoke, she giggled and looked through him— lovely, he thought, for no one had ever looked his way— and came then to orbit around her as if her own personal moon. indeed, the history of one’s lunacy is something like a solar myth; a gravitational pull which cannot be fathomed by its centre. the angels & i, we did pray for him, though we said nothing of a forged— better, forced— euphoria.

we all wondered if & when she would speak, and then, what would she say & to whom? in fact, the days did pass & he followed her from room to room more lonesome than a stray. his longing was oppressive; i could not bear to see it. he must’ve figured her newborne words would be meant only for him, but when she spoke— & it should be known that she did— it was to a force unseen— familiar to her— that which’s reverberations had raised her up within herself. and he, pleased, yet still so hopeless, spoke back. we let him only for his savage lack. jill screwed her face up at us & said: that bitch is only geeked off the voices in her head.)