RAP YUH YUH

People don’t realize that we live in a society.

Nobody can retain their s-s-sobriety.

Getting so wasted on their own anxiety.

Their biggest worry is, “Sir, please don’t fire me!”

You don’t understand that the struggle is real,

To make a good rap that gives you the feels.

To assemble words in a way that they congeal,

To make content people like, so it appeals.

Try’nna write a rap, maybe something abstract.

In my mind I feel so trapped, feeling overlapped,

By society, man. I need more fans.

‘Cause it’s gettin’ kinda hot in here, just like in Iran.

I’ve got writer’s block. Got no time on the clock.

The deadline’s at the door and I can hear it knock.

My brain is locked. The gun is cocked.

Held hostage by society, and I am distraught.

I’m blank. Fresh paper from the bank.

If rhymes are a currency, then I’ve got splank.

If money could buy creativity, that’s it for me.

The symphonies that flow in my head, the epiphanies

Are lacking. I’ll come back in a jiffy, I’ll be spiffy.

So stick with me, kick with me, we’ll recreate your memories.

We’ll go back and rem’nisce about rap in the ’90s,

When they rapped about the simple stuff like cars, money and hineys.

Then I’ll put that glorified past behind me,

And think about spittin’ new lyrics that are fiery.

Man, it got so hot in here that they had to call the fire department.

No, it’s just the cops. We got a noise complaint.

M’neighbours just couldn’t handle the heat, I guess.