[“‘In the Circuit Court of the 18th Judicial Circuit in and for Seminole County, Florida; State of Florida versus George Zimmerman, the verdict—we the jury find George Zimmerman not guilty. So say we all. –Foreperson’”]

[1]
Shout out to the courts and the legislation
that make assassination fair practice. No hesitation
or waiting for I.D. 
So, patiently, I be
taking target practice, my pistol laying beside me. 
If you’re wondering why we
are angry. I’m sorry— 
I can’t make you, and you don’t wanna know—prob’ly
your mind’s closed. Your blinder’s up. 
I’m thinking time is up, and you got ‘til this rhyme is up
to ponder where your mind is ‘cause
I feel it coming on. The streets getting warm. 
If the world is this cold I can see there’s a storm
on the horizon, and you might be less than ready for rain.
If a man’s giving you *hell*, and you’re living through pain
you ain’t got much to explain when you up and react.
It’s the pressure that makes pipes burst. Nothing but facts, 
nothing but raps here, nothing but acts fear provoke.
2013 ‘Strange Fruit’, minus the rope.

[2 (DJ Animosity)]
Verdict came out, and I’m sick of this bullshit.
Wanna let ‘em know I’m the wrong one to fuck with.
Tired of being a target—I’m not gon’ be a victim.
Keep your judge, your court and your system.
Not gon’ depend on having a witness.
Vigilantes want some; come on and get this.
Educated and armed, so that makes me dangerous. 
Not gonna be followed by some punk-ass stranger. 
Takin’ ‘im out like an Army Ranger.
Hear my words. I testify—you feel my anger.

[Mark O’Mara: Well, I think that things would have been different if George Zimmerman was black for this reason: he never would have been charged with a crime.]

[3]
Y’all must wanna start a revolution. 
Niggas looking for a good reason to start lootin’.
They been shooting in Chi-raq. 
We ain’t gon’ deny facts. 
Fuck a gun buy back;
they out here boosting gun racks.

Wanna reason to fear black males? Give us an inkling 
of the feeling it’s open season
on us, and we won’t be breathing
unless we protect our Freedom,
our Life and our Liberty, in Pursuit of Happiness. 
I can tell you what happens next: 
I’m thinking of Malcolm X—ain’t looking to turn a cheek.

Somewhere in America, looking to target me,
is a man thinking ‘Birth of a Nation’ without a sheet,
who feels his grounds need stood, and probably,
since I ain’t his property,
won’t properly pardon me,
but feels like I’m harboring
some aggression, and ought to be
more respectful in honoring
that I’m here, so he wants to teach me a lesson,
except I know what I know—and it’s just this:

These fists, these feet, this brain, and this heart
can’t be dismissed without laying a few scars.

So Somewhere in America They’re fearing
‘cause it’s scarier that Right Here in America We’re ready.

[Malcolm X: “I do believe that the black man in the United States…is well within his right to do whatever is necessary, by any means necessary, to protect his life and property, especially in a country where the federal government itself has proven it is either unable or unwilling to protect the lives and property of those human beings.”]


Right Here In America [feat. DJ Animosity]

[Yes, yes. 
This is a topic that’s near and dear to my heart. 

I’m just try’n’a eat.]

[Hook]
I ain’t had dinner,
and I ain’t ate a thing all day.
Lord, forgive me…
Lord, forgive me…
the thing that I’m trying to say 
is I think I should eat alone.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

I can see you eyeing them, but get up off my tray, 
I got my drink, I got my food, and I would share them, but today I’m hungry,
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[1]
We just went through the drive-thru, and when I asked you if you want food,
you replied all politely and you denied it like it was cool. 

I can feel the hunger. 
I could have guessed that you would just assume I would prob’ly wanna
share with you, but how dare you to, because I am not yo’ momma,
and I ain’t here to feed ya.
I’m sorry, but 
you’re shit out of luck, 
and I ain’t trying to tease ya,

but a second ago when we was in the car
you should have said, before I got my straw,
“You know what? I’m hungry. I should get a burger.”
And said it loud enough so I could’ve heard ya.
I’d hate for my dinner to turn to a murder.
You can’t get a piece, and you can’t get a third of
my food, and it’s rude and it’s kind of absurd, I
wish you would have knew and just made you a purchase.

I can feel the hunger. 
I could have guessed that you would just assume I would prob’ly wanna
share with you, but how dare you to, because I am not yo’ momma,
and I ain’t here to feed ya.
I’m sorry, but 
you’re shit out of luck, 
and I ain’t trying to tease ya.

[Hook]
I ain’t had dinner,
and I ain’t ate a thing all day.
Lord, forgive me…
Lord, forgive me…
the thing that I’m trying to say 
is I think I should eat alone.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

I can see you eyeing them, but get up off my tray, 
I got my drink, I got my food, and I would share them, but today I’m hungry,
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[2]
I’m try’n’a keep myself calm 
and not just respond because I’m pissed off,
but fact is that shit is backwards; 
can’t warm it up, and you ain’t Kris Kross.

And I’m looking right past you.
You can get mad, but you can take that shit down to White Castle.

I know you got cash, and they make it fast, so it ain’t a hassle.
Get off yo’ ass and get you some food of your own to eat,
‘cause you ain’t getting none of mine [for real!]
You ain’t getting none of mine [for real!]

So spare me the pitiful look.
If you could cook you could make something that took
minimal time, but you can’t have none of mine.
I’m sorry, but no, not this time.
Burger King, Jack In The Box, Panda Wok—so many choices you got.

Get you a Happy Meal; ask for a box.
Get you a Happy Meal; ask for a box.

I can feel the hunger. 
I could have guessed that you would just assume I would prob’ly wanna
share with you, but how dare you to, because I am not yo’ momma,
and I ain’t here to feed ya.
I’m sorry, but 
you’re shit out of luck, 
and I ain’t trying to tease ya.

[Hook]
I ain’t had dinner,
and I ain’t ate a thing all day.
Lord, forgive me…
Lord, forgive me…
the thing that I’m trying to say 
is I think I should eat alone.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

I can see you eyeing them, but get up off my tray, 
I got my drink, I got my food, and I would share them, but today I’m hungry,
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[3]
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
I ain’t try’n’a front, though.
I would prob’ly share, but I ain’t even had no lunch, so
thinkin’ you can prob’ly get a nugget out my ten piece,
an onion ring, or my hush puppy might be tempting, 
but I ain’t try’n’a share my entrée or dessert with you.
That Dutch Apple Pie is all mine, so stop staring, boo.

Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

Walk out that door, get in the car and take that drive. 
My New Year’s resolution is to not make this confusing,
if we’re in the drive-thru, then order something that’s for you, 
I’m saying, 
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.
Bitch, don’t steal my fries.

[I suppose…

now that you know better you can do better.

<Aha-ha>

It’s A. Dot…

That’s real talk….]

Bitch, Don't Steal My Fries

Intro [Yes, yes.

And so the journey begins.

You know how it feels, 
and I’m pretty sure you understand, too…

Yeah…

Ha!

Good looking out, Truth!

I finally made my move, 
and I figured I’d give you an update
on where I’m at right now.]

[MALCOLM X (as portrayed by Denzel Washington): 
“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]


[1]
They say History is written by the victors,
so when you see my picture
in the book it’ll be consistent with my memory, 
my victories, my tendencies that tempered me and wintered me.
Cold, like those Chi City winds, ‘cause they’re blistering.

It’s in my DNA.
It’s in my bloodline.
What I do is much deeper than a punchline.

Where I’m from crime
is the norm.
Bullets hail—we stay calm amidst the storm.

I say ‘we’ because
when I say ‘me’ it’s us.
When I say ‘you’ it’s me, too, and vice versa.
It’s not much that needs to be proven in nice verses.
Write cursive—scribble out—print it like I meant it.
My people *closed* minded—
wear it if you fit it.
Rarely niggas get it. If they did it would be critically acclaimed.

But still the same A. Dot.
Still focused on my vision at a rate they not.

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

[2]
So, I finally made my move to the South, and as I’m moving about
I get a better understanding what my roots is about,
because my people from here, and though I can’t see ‘em from here
they’re reflected in my expressions
so you’re hearing ‘em clear.

They ask me, “Why would you leave?”
I ask ‘em, “How could I stay
and be limited on the shit I have the power to say?”

I’m thinking years in the future.
They’re thinking now and today,
like getting showered with flowers, 
not in the aisle at your grave.

It’s hard to make it make sense.
My momma proud as can be, 
but says, “I thought you left before to get a college degree?”
And as I tell her, “I did, but I’m going back in the summer.”
it kind of makes me wonder what the fuck I’ll do with another.

It’s nothing more than a question—rhetorical one, at that.
I mean, the fact is all of this shit started off with a rap.
And if I’m still doing that
I think I’m doing okay.
If it ain’t complimentary, then you ain’t got shit to say [to me].

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

[3]
Because you read it in a book,
thought that it was true;
saw it on the television—thought that it was you.
Self-fulfilling politics get taught to you at school.
Brolic ‘cause you brought with it a positively rude
mind state. I keep mine like a blind date:

I can be objective, 
I can be accepting, 
but I’d rather be selective.
If I’m not respected I’m the wrong nigga to f’ with.
If you saw my checklist
you knew this was next. It’s 
not a matter of simply rapping.
I really happen to have a strategy being enacted.

If you know, you know I ain’t afraid of spittin’
what I know is true ‘cause I’m south of the Mason-Dixon.
If I know the Truth it’s my duty to make revisions;
showing my peoples’ beauty and skewing what They envision.

I make my living off the things that I think.
Therefore, I am. 
I’ll give that a minute to sink [in].

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

Dissertation [Part 1: The Introduction] Prod By Truth

[Huey P. Newton: “One of my principles is that contradiction is a ruling principle of the universe, and everything—and phenomena, whether it’s the physical world, or the biologic world, or the social world, has its internal contradiction that gives motion to things—that internal strain. And much of the time that we homo sapiens don’t realize that no matter what sort of conditions we establish, no matter what government we establish, at this point, there also will be that internal contradiction that will have to be resolved, and resolved in a rational, just way. And, of course that leads us to somewhat—it’s very vague on how to deal with it. And many times we claim actions are revolutionary, when really they’re not.”]

[1]
They want rap, not a tap dance minstrel show
so they can’t help but wanna follow where my pencil go. 
I’m like the ghost of Wu Tang’s Bobby Digital’s analog catalog
trapped inside your stereo.

Not mercurial, but open to change.
Came during the drought when you was hoping for rain,
praying to HOV. I was opening lanes
on the right side, solo, joking and playing. It’s like

‘Beat Street’ meets Oscar The Grouch—
traditions that used to exist, got argued about
and took over—consumerism hollowed ‘em out.
Now everybody’s scratching heads, like “What’s the problem about?”

If you can’t see the boogey man but you spooked,
and you can tell a lot about a tree from the roots,
then it don’t really matter what you do to the fruit,
‘cause you ain’t eatin’ what you thinkin’ is like venom to you.

I represent niggas that been in the booth—
spittin’ truth, so our peers call us venerable. 
Ladies get disrespected, and dinners are few, 
so they all *bear a tone* like a *ten or a two,*

but be careful who you mention it to, 
‘cause I got sisters, a mother, and living is proof
that they’re queens, no borough, and itching to prove 
that I’ll put you Down Under like a didgeridoo.

Murder metaphor, red caped matador.
Niggas kill niggas every day, why battle for a title,
‘cause if you look like me, you’re my rival, 
but mix it with some ignorance, and you can be my idol.

I’m ‘bout to remix 'America the Beautiful'
to ‘The Takeover’ beat, I’m sure it’ll be suitable, 
write three rhymes, solidify me undisputable, 
start a revolution, have ‘em play it at my funeral,

and print my name on they t-shirts, black, solid with
prophecies spoken by Socrates with politics 
that’s paradoxical—on a beach somewhere tropical
sippin’ daiquiris with Tupac, Scott LaRock and Obama. 
*Solemn*—alaikum is the statement. 
Peace to the people, pray you never be complacent, 
and never strive for parallel if you were born adjacent.  
Simple statement:  I’m saying always strive for greatness. 

Yes, yes.

[Reporter: “Are you not, perhaps, afraid of what might happen to you as a result of making these revelations?”

[Malcolm X: “Oh, yes. I probably am a dead man already.”

“No. I don’t worry. I tell you, I’m a man who believed that I died twenty years ago. And I live like a man who is dead already. I have no fear whatsoever of anybody or anything.”]

Internal Contradiction [The Showdown] Prod By Preme

"[1]
They want what’s similar to what’s been on the radio.
Say it’s no big deal, but if I’m for real, it is, but pay me no
credit, cash, debit, slash, let it pass, with no assist.
No resistance, know a listener can tell the difference.
I really wish I gave a fuck about what other people do. 
I really don’t, but want you to feel like I wrote this song for you. 

But it was writer’s block that prompted it, and me, who wanted it.
My promise is my narcissistic nature won’t be charmed by which-
ever one’s opinionated statements about how I made it.
I’m elated if you hate it. I’m complacent if you love it.
I put myself way above it—see it like an ant farm.
Can’t harm what you can’t touch. And I’ll give it up
before I let it be perverted, you heard it from me directly.
It’s silly if I ask you to, but I don’t respect me. 

Let me make myself real clear here—you niggas coonin’ and buffoonin’ 
and doing more damage to you than who you 
think is your enemy. Foolish, to think that men’ll see you
and then emulate your example. You see it clear like a sample. 
The opportunity’s ample, so you don’t put up a fight. 
Just sell what’s already there, ‘cause it’s your copy to write.
Rite of passage is the massive misinformation you faced and made believe 
you understood—that was the ace up your sleeve. 
So you sat down at the table to play. They made it look fun. 
You thought you had the high card, they told you you were the one.
And you were. 

Sometimes you play a game and win, but despite
your winning at it, somehow you find something missing in life.
Like for me? I’ll take the L before I take a few dollars
if I gotta endorse a product that I know to be harmful. 
Where’s the honor in a nigga being a nigga for sell?
May as well put on your heavy chain and work in the fields. 
How do you make a slave stay a slave? Tell him he can make a slave, 
and make some money while he’s at. It’s simple and tragic.

[2]
If Willie Lynch was just a myth but his invention still persisted
would it matter if we saw ourselves as chattel and we battled one another?
I was raised to hate my brother, so I hate him, 
and I hate the woman who created him. And maybe from
a certain angle,  if you strain to see the truth, then you could see
that what it really is I’m dealing with has more to do with me, 
but I’m afraid of truth, and hate that you remind me who I am, 
and that’s related to the way I grew up trying to understand
how I could make it through this place and do what I was meant to, and
face the fact that I was snatched from home and brought to tend the land.
‘Cause that’s the complicated kind of truth America the Beautiful
would hate to help me deal with, plus I feel it’s kind of mutually
beneficial if I’m killin’ niggas and she want ‘em dead
as much as she wants me to go away. A bounty’s on my head.

So they can ask for gun control and more restrictions, 
they can’t satiate the hunger that she has for hanging niggas.
I’m a proxy and a peon; a patsy taking orders; 
Apache scout attacking scalps and trying to save my borders;
a hoarder on a hunt for blood, I’m crippled by the thirst, 
so I’m riffin' over turf and bitches bitchin’ it gets worse
because my women wanna curse a cursed nigga. I am first 
A man who ain’t a man, but kind of mannish so it hurts
to think about it, be surrounded by it, even be convicted; 
to see it and believe it, talk about it and bear witness.
 
Fuck til death do us part, wellness or in sickness. 
I wanna see your thickness—twerk something—be my mistress, 
be my bitch. I’ll treat you like the bitch you is, and we’ll be living. 
Then we can have some children…and you could raise them brilliant…
or you could raise them feeling how I feel about us all…
the strangest kind of fruit to ever fall…

You could raise them how I feel about us all…
the strangest kind of fruit to ever fall."







Willie Revisited [Prod. by Preme]

""[1]
Yesterday I had to check myself a couple times— 
write a couple rhymes,
hit my brother line,
ask if it’s another sign.

I ain’t had enough of trying, 
but I’m wearing down. 
Feels like another obstacle I’m staring down, 

and I feel like sharing now.
So I tell him how I feel.
He feel me and he tell me, “That’s how everybody feel.”

And I know it, but I wanna wallow just a little longer— 
stay up on the phone until I feel a little stronger. 

Judge me if you wanna. I ain’t got a worry. 
Tomorrow is another day. I ain’t tryna hurry. 

Vision kind of blurry. Hoping to see better.
Better see the better in the day before it’s “Yes to…”


[2]
Last night I bought a bottle, and prob’ly shouldn’t be saying it.
I ain’t drink it, but think it’s a metaphor for my day. 
It’s the way it can make you feel 
like nothing’s really a deal.
The pleasure and the appeal 
is waiting behind the seal.

Just break it open and guzzle it, 
feel it, and then say “fuck it.” 
Since nothing is permanent, my sobriety had it’s turn and it’s time.

Resigned to the life that I live now, 
my cup is filled up, I don’t want it to spill out.

To see it pouring down the drain is therapeutic.
I know it sounds insane to say I never want to do it again, 
but still spend what I earned to make that purchase.

That kind of temptation is dangerous. Is it worth it?"

[Lyrics written by A.D. Carson. Instrumental is "Yesterday" by Big K.R.I.T., from "4Eva N a Day [Instrumentals]" taken from http://soundcloud.com/bigkrit/yesterday-instrumental]"

Yes, Today [Prod. by Big KRIT]

Somebody in the crowd yells, 
“Impeach the DJ!” 
and almost on cue 
he places the needle tip down on the record
and the break-beat begins, 
“Ladies & Gentlemen…” 
immediately following a 
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

At that exact moment 
I know that we can have our own political party—
That we need 
our own political party.
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”

Right next to the DJ booth is the voting booth, 
so right after you vote 
you can request your favorite song…
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
but you have to be registered 
to vote, 
which means you have to be registered 
to make any other requests…

“Ladies & Gentlemen…”

And the dress code is ‘Sunday’s Best’
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
and after you request your favorite song, 
you can elect to not be enslaved by the legislation, 
which the DJ will read over the beat…
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…Please pay attention to the hook…
boom-bap…Please pay attention…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

Then, he slaps the crossfader, and says, 
“This is a paid advertisement from your sponsors…”
slap—boom-boom-boom—slap
“Hennessey Very Special Cognac & The Jordan Sneaker Company…”
slap—boom-boom-boom—slap
“You’re encouraged to vote with your wallets…”
slap—boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

And the people are in a trance, dancing, drinking and carrying on. 

The line at the DJ booth is bustlin’
because the hustlers want to hear Hustler Music,
and somebody wants You’re Only A Customer.
So the DJ says, “I do customized mix tapes for almost pennies a song.”
Then, Biggie’s Dead Wrong is mixed in, 
and just when you think it can’t get any liver
the crowd almost rises in unison, 
and I’m thinking dude can spin whatever record he wants and have them
moving to it, 
so I’m pretty sure he could lead our political party 
with slide dances 
and chants of “Do my ladies run this muthafucka?”

Now, “Do my fellas run this muthafucka?”

“I said the roof…the roof…the roof is on fire.  
We don’t need no water…”


And before last call, everybody who wants their voice heard 
has their song played, 
unless the DJ decides it would interrupt the mix, 
in which case you get a mix tape at a considerable discount…
and your song goes to the top of the list next time around…

“No guarantees,” 
the DJ says as the lights come up, 
“We don’t want to ruin a good time.”

And the people leave, satisfied. 

And the DJ goes to the back room to collect his check. 

The club owner smiles, 
tosses him cash, and they have a good laugh

about Politics As Usual.

Impeach The President

[1]
You don’t even know it, but you sleep, nigga. 
And when I say it, you assume it’s ‘cause I’m deep. It’s a
--easy way to keep the peace, nigga. 
Unless you restin’ in it. Sleep with a dog, wake with the fleas, 
take what you need. No. Take what you’re given, and live with it. 
Learn to love it. Never try to rise above it. Just fester and learn to covet it. 
Niggas never get enough of it. 
And then be sick of me discussing it. Fuck it. I understand it, man. 
Living is proof. 
But when I see it, then what the fuck is a nigga to do,
especially when you thinking that what you living is truth?
I mean, you claim to be a man—ten toes on the ground. 
A poser, a clown—man, do you know how you sound?
You take the tools of an oppressor, then dress ‘em a little better, 
express ‘em over a record, a metaphorical lesson. 
Twenty-five lighters on the dresser, yessir. 
Then you can prob’ly brighten up your lectures, jester. 
But you’d rather step and fetch it—and profess your ignorance, 
and you can look in the mirror tomorrow and live with it. 

Cash Rules Everything Around Me—CREAM, 
cause Dope Ruined Everything Around My DREAM.

Preme got knowledge.
Truth got knowledge.
Ed quit his job and went back to college. 

[2]
C-Style got knowledge and a plan. 
Jay still locked up, and I’m trying to manage a manifestation
of an indivisible nation, 
with diminishing patience, 
because I’m sick of us waitin, 
so the quicker we make it
the quicker we can progress. 
But niggas don’t wanna make, just wanna be living the best. 
Just want to count the most money, and hope we see that he got it, 
so when he talks about haters, then we’re the easiest topic, 
because his styles are the latest, and he can easily cop em, 
so all the ladies, they love him, they want to be in his pockets, 
that’s if you’re lettin’ him tell it—see, he’s a prophet for profit, 
and he’s a popular target for all the niggas that’s starvin’, 

so when it comes to cake, cake, cake, 
niggas only see what they can take, take, take, 
instead of living with the hate, hate, hate, 
maybe you should try to be awake, wake, wake.


[3]
They treat me like I’m not a rapper, 
I’m actually a poet. I know it’s a contradiction—I take it that they don’t know it’s
so similar. If I’m giving them words, and they on the beat, when I speak 
and they speak back, then we rappin’ but they’re so geeked that I’m not.
I don’t want to bearing no bad news. I choose to just nod 
like I approve, but I don’t. My God…
An arbitrary distinction is what I call it. 
I pardon the ignorance, but I’m bothered if you can live with it. 
Hardly the one to knock if you get it. Wanna define me?
I’m fine with it. Reading Nikki, ‘cause me and Miss Giovanni
be speaking the same language. I’m aiming to educate. 
Don’t mistake it for being passive—I’ll pass on the head crackin, 
but edifying’s an action I’m actively ascertaining, 
evaluating, arranging, defining, and then explaining, 
that learning about solutions is better than just complaining. 
The target at which I’m aiming is somewhere between your brain 
and your heart.
And I’m an artist. Not artificial a bit. Dog-eat-dog world, 
I’m starving up in this bitch. But rich,
if you consider I’m living chasing a dream, 
if they living chasing the CREAM, 
I’ll heat it up and be steam. I’m rising
above—just like the Phoenix—the flame’ll warm ya—
got a different mindstate, I’m cool like Arizona[’]s at night.
That might be a little out of your league. 
If you listen to rudimentary raps, then it’s not your speed, 
and I’m lapping you. Take a seat and just act like you get it, B….

Pound Cake [DREAMS]/Nikki Giovanni Music 3

"[1]
If I end where I started, I bet you gone know the difference.
This is living, not merely existing—bars without the prisons. 
Far beyond the glimmer of prisms reflecting light—

my father was so dark that I’m bright—sun of the night, 
and you’re loony to think the tunes you’re confusing 
with you consuming the fruit of the tree of knowledge 
are any truer to you if you got it. See, if I start where I finish
you’ll see the difference in presentation, delivery, understanding and memory.
Remember, if you can see the forest and the leaves, 
the branches and the trees, advance and then recede, 
then maybe you can see there’s an art to the game of war, 
start just a day before, and end with a 24 to relax. 

No basketball metaphor, but even still, 
if your Achilles Heel is revealed and you need to heal, 
nobody wants to hear that you’re resting to get better, 
they’re more or less on quest to investigate your succession. 

[Hook]
If you call what you do rap—I say you shouldn’t do that.
If you insist, then I suggest that you do this:
Call what I do something that’s the total opposite. 
‘Cause we don’t do the same thing, bruh—that’s kind of obvious.

I say there’s room for us both—but who am I?
And people seem to be cool with confusing you and I, 
but I’m not.
And I’m aware how the moves in the game are played, 
but how ‘bout we just call a spade a spade.

[2]
To this new generation of “emcees,” 
on knees, giving new definition to succeed. 

Take this as a warning, and take pause.
Take a look in the mirror, witness what you caused. 

Identity crisis, pretending to like what I don’t
is what I don’t do. I’m really polite 
when it comes to writing nice shit. 
My pen’s on the night shift, bar hopping, 
trying to scribble some lines that are jaw dropping. 
I often fail to engage in the conversations occurring
that start with “back in the days.” I’m more concerned with the current, 
but currently, If I’m looking for flow, then I guess I oughta
play my own shit, or find a body of water.

That’s deep, ‘cause it’s really the way I feel
But it’s also kind of shallow. I understand the appeal
of appearing to be persnickety, flipping, lickety-split, 
and then splitting some dividends. 
I guess this is where it ends and begins.

[Hook]

[3]
I call a spade by it’s name. No faking jacks, or no bluffing, 
The heart of a king that’s beating when speaking over percussion
conducted by Preme—call it a premium pre-production, 
cause this is teaching, and THE main feature will be discussion. 
So, see, mane: Let me explain just how I does it.
You do it how you can. I do; however you doesn’t. No man, 
woman, child, could a style ever create—to see A
dot. Stop it if you trying. No lying. No standing near him either, 
he’s a monster breathing
fire. When I sigh, it’s sayonara to ya—see ya.
I applaud ya’, patna, but this part of writing speeches
for me is like comparing snuff to art inspired features. 
I murder beats just to bring ‘em back to life and let you witness. 
Listen, be convinced that it’s a sickness I’m afflicted with. 
The sickest shit you ever want to say you ever saw, 
and you can say you saw it from the start." 

[Hook]

Calling Spades [Prod. By Preme]

"From Cold World Mixtape Volume 2: Music & Poetry Inspired by Cold, A Novel By A.D. Carson"

Make Me Feel [feat. Truth & Ram] [prod. by Truth]

"[Verse 1: Nas]
"Imagine smoking weed in the street without cops harassing.
Imagine going to court with no trial.
Lifestyle cruising. Blue behind my waters.
No welfare supporters, 
more conscious of the way we raise our daughters.

Days are shorter, nights are colder,
feeling like life is over. These snakes strike like a cobra.
The world's hot. My son got knocked. 
Evidently, it's elementary: 
they want us all gone eventually.

Trooping out of state for a plate—
knowledge.
If coke was cooked without the garbage 
we'd all have the top dollars.

Imagine everybody flashing 
fashion, designer clothes, 
lacing your clique up with diamond rolls.
Your peoples holding dough. No parole,
no rubbers—
going raw. Imagine law with no undercovers…

Just some thoughts for the mind.
I take a glimpse into time,
watch the blimp read “The World Is Mine!”

[Chorus: Lauryn Hill, Nas]
If I ruled the world…
[Imagine that.]

I'd free all my sons… 
[I love ‘em, love ‘em, baby.]

Black diamonds and pearls…
[Could it be? If you could be mine, we'd both shine.]

If I ruled the world…
[Still living for today, 
in these last days…]"

[Verse 2: A.D. Carson]
Yo, it’ll be paradise: Life, relaxing. 
Black, Latino, and Anglo Saxon—
Rainbow/PUSH with no Jesse Jackson. 
You’ll wonder how it ever happened,
that rappin’—just spittin’ flows—
no more entering through kitchen doors… 
Getting known for something other than the drama. 
Facing racism—even though we got Obama. 
We can still be honest, 
acknowledge and admonish. 
Take ‘em all to task, ‘cause a promise is a promise. 

Mommas would be mommas, 
and daddies would present. 
Children would be educated with practical lessons.
No arrested development; effort to empty prisons 
for better living—the type of place to raise kids in. 
Open they eyes to the lies History’s told foul. 
Teach ‘em the truth. Let ‘em know now, 
so we can grow how
nature intended—
reading spaces between the sentences.
Show ‘em they own image—let ‘em know that ain’t they nemesis.  

[Chorus: Lauryn Hill, Nas]
"If I ruled the world…
[Imagine that.]

I'd free all my sons… 
[I love ‘em, love ‘em, baby.]

Black diamonds and pearls…
[Could it be? If you could be mine, we'd both shine.]

If I ruled the world…
[Still living for today, 
in these last days and times.]

[Bridge: Lauryn Hill]
And then we’ll walk right up to the sun
hand-in-hand.
We’ll walk right up to the sun.
We won’t land.

We’ll walk right up to the sun
hand-in-hand.
We’ll walk right up to the sun.
We won’t land.

[Chorus: Lauryn Hill, Nas]
If I ruled the world…
[Imagine that.]

I'd free all my sons… 
[I love ‘em, love ‘em, baby.]

Black diamonds and pearls…
[Could it be? If you could be mine, we'd both shine.]

If I ruled the world…
[Still living for today, 
in these last days…]"


[Music: “Royals” by Lorde; produced by Joel Little
Lyrics by Nas, Lauryn Hill & A.D. Carson]"


Imagine This [Feat. Nas & Lauryn Hill]

"Performed by The 2nd Carolina String Band/Loius Farrakhan. 

According to Wikipedia, ""Dixie", also known as "I Wish I Was in Dixie", "Dixie's Land", and other titles, is a popular American song. It is one of the most distinctively American musical products of the 19th century, and probably the best-known song to have come out of blackface minstrelsy. Although not a folk song at its creation, "Dixie" has since entered the American folk vernacular. The song likely cemented the word "Dixie" in the American vocabulary as a synonym for the Southern United States.

Most sources credit Ohio-born Daniel Decatur Emmett with the song's composition; however many other people have claimed to have composed "Dixie", even during Emmett's lifetime. Compounding the problem of definitively establishing the song's authorship are Emmett's own confused accounts of its writing, and his tardiness in registering the song's copyright. The latest challenge has come on behalf of the Snowden Family of Knox County, Ohio, who may have collaborated with Emmett to write "Dixie".

The song originated in the blackface minstrel shows of the 1850s and quickly grew famous across the United States. Its lyrics, written in a comic, exaggerated version of African American Vernacular English, tell the story of a freed black slave pining for the plantation of his birth. During the American Civil War, "Dixie" was adopted as a de facto anthem of the Confederacy. New versions appeared at this time that more explicitly tied the song to the events of the Civil War. Since the advent of the North American Civil Rights Movement, many have identified the lyrics of the song with the iconography and ideology of the Old South. Today, "Dixie" is sometimes considered offensive, and its critics link the act of singing it to sympathy for the concept of slavery in the American South. Its supporters, on the other hand, view it as a legitimate aspect of Southern culture and heritage and the campaigns against it as political correctness. The song was a favorite of President Abraham Lincoln: he had it played at some of his political rallies and at the announcement of General Robert E. Lee's surrender."

Louis Farrakhan, according to Wikipedia, "is the leader of the syncretic and mainly African-American religious movement the Nation of Islam (NOI). He served as the minister of major mosques in Boston and Harlem, and was appointed by the longtime NOI leader, Elijah Muhammad, as the National Representative of the Nation of Islam. After Warith Deen Muhammad disbanded the NOI and started the orthodox Islamic group American Society of Muslims, Farrakhan started rebuilding the NOI. In 1981 he revived the name Nation of Islam for his organization, previously known as Final Call, regaining many of the Nation of Islam's National properties including the NOI National Headquarters Mosque Maryam, reopening over 130 NOI mosques in America and the world. The Southern Poverty Law Center describes Farrakhan as antisemitic and anti-white. Farrakhan himself, however, disputes this view of his ideology."

Intro [I'm Doing The Talking]

"A dot—no comparison. 
Rap Thomas Edison. Arrogant. 
God son flow. Rhymes heaven sent.
Braggadocio, while they Pinocchio when flowing over instrumentals.
If I said it, best believe I meant it, 
‘cause my sentences be ventilation statements. 
Press breaking. Half baked. No smoker; still eating; have cake. 
Cream rises—
I am where I am—no surprises. 
Dream shake like Hakeem—stay posted—no denying I’m defiant. 
Miami Vice; Sonny squealing tires. 
Weight’s up—I’m the Jolly Green Giant with the science.

They feebler than the Keebler’s, hide in trees—so sweet. 
Want beef like vegans, so we simply won’t meet. 
Can’t speak. We don’t even eat off the same dishes. 
They dying for some fame. We don’t have the same wishes. 
Don’t do the same business. 
Go live—pour up.
You sell a bit; I’m celibate—I gives no fucks. 
Sell none, either. Hail one Teacher. 
Fail? Won’t ever. Tales so clever. 

Author like Chaucer, be the saucer in the sky, 
that they swear they saw flying with the lights whizzing by. 

Gemini [Jim and I]—put it on the Finn like Huck—
for my Niggas who would get it, either spill or throw it up. 

No colors. No gang ties. Just words. 
I was speaking on the stars, and the moon just occurred. 

Pit-bull, 
spit full clips, bullshit? No never. 
Ill state, still. Go getter.
Chill, no sweater—they better button up. 
I’m in a button down, bow tie, summing up,
like, “In conclusion, 
no confusing, me for you or you. 
I’m not doing 
what you cats call ‘rap,’ I call trash. 
And what y’all fans call ‘hot’ I call ‘gas.’

Can’t fuck with A dot. I must brag.
If you’ve been schooled, this’ not the same class. 
If you’ve not read, it’s still the same book, 
but not the same page, and not the same look. 

Dot’s the same guy that told you ‘don’t speak’
then gave you no doubts your flow was on E. 

I’m gone teach—I’m telling you, ‘hands down.’
Grand Prize Game was played by those clowns.

The Bozo Show, that’s sold on hope—
could have a needle in they vein and still won’t know dope.

Introducing—back from never leaving—
the critically acclaimed, recognized, never even.

Fire breathing, Midwest beast in
5’6” frame, plus flame still leaking. 
Still plain speaking. Raps woo ladies. 
Nine deep. Tang like booze. Euphrates…
In denial is where I leave all my rivals. 
Prey like a predator, while they praying for their survival...

Find a Bible."

Instrumental: "One," by Ghostface Killah [Supreme Clientele]"

One [Produced by JuJu]

"[1: A.D. Carson]
It’s the anti—everything that you believe you stand for.
Cancer that a man stores in his hands for
laying ‘em on parishioners wishing for some malignance.
I’m really just saying what I’m writing is sickening. 
What I’m writing is vision. 
What I’m writing is healing.
What I’m writing is flashes of lightning across the ceiling.
Flames from the floor, flickering, licking your feet to move you, 
fool you into believing that when you move, it’s the true you.
Voodoo dance from dude whose hands expand reality. 
Puppeteering, but from what you’re hearing, you do it naturally. 
And actually I’m to blame for it all—
I’m the reason, even your breathing—if you rise or you fall.
They said Hip-Hop’s dead. I said it must be a joke, 
‘cause if it’s really the truth that means I fuck with the ghost.
And I ain’t—above believing in what people don’t see, 
but I can’t—believe in it if don’t believe in me, 
so where are you? 

[2: Bad Dreams]
It’s that long night sleep tight now that you think you woke up 
Soaking in your psychosis I’m dosing you with the donuts  
You wading into them rivers just wishing for this deliverance  
You floating in them oceans and just hoping for your atonement
Cooking up something frozen
Cooling off the commotion
What I quote is drums invoking tongues of the chosen 
Black Rhapsodies Rap tapestries get woven 
Bodies contorted jerking the circle is never broken 
Like the slave embracing godliness, embrace the bodiless
Authorship beyond consciousness that’s where the party is 
Burn Down the plantation regardless
The ghosts told me never the fear the darkness 
that’s where the realest part is
They said the blues is dead I said it must be a joke 
Amiri Baraka handed me some smoke and I just took a toke 
And I ain’t above believing in what people don’t see 
I believe in ya’ll even when ya’ll don’t believe me 
So who are you? 


[3: A.D. Carson]
God bless the child that can hold it in. 
Believe…enemies bleed when I hold my pen. 
Let these words be the first to my unborn seeds
so they hear the voice of God clear—blast for me, 
blast for your you, and those who come after you.
Keep your peace, until they make you have to use it—
have to lose it—clear choice: after music 
comes the fall. So, really, what I’m doing’s for y’all. 
But you’ll never know the truth, never see it for self,
never believe ‘cause you can’t understand it, or else
have it chewed and spewed back at you, pick it up and endorse it,
then you’ll support it, get it to fit. If it don’t, then you’ll force it. 
They say my people are dead. I said it must be a joke, 
‘cause if that’s really the truth that means I’m talking to ghosts.
And I ain’t—above believing in what people don’t see, 
but I can’t—believe in it if don’t believe in me, 
so what are you?" 



Talking To Ghosts feat. Bad Dreams [Prod. by Preme]

"in the spirit of 
Imamu Amiri, 
Malcolm, 
Martin and 
Mandela, 
this is a Black poem. 

this is a love poem. 
this is a Black love poem, 

a Black love poem aware of it’s blackness
and aware of its surroundings, 

a poem tired of pretending to see no color, and know no difference, 
because this poem knows that not seeing color and not knowing difference
can be just as dangerous as seeing every color of the rainbow
and judging each according to pre-assigned categories
as we see fit.

so this poem will not be about colorblindness. 

this is a Black poem. 
this is a love poem. 
this is a Black love poem, 

a Black love poem dedicated to a history of struggle
and a legacy of progress, 

a poem upset with how far we’ve come, but how little we do—
even in our acknowledgments of the great price paid 
for where we eat, sleep, and lay our heads, 
and who we’re able to do this with, 

this poem is not, and never will be enough, 
so this poem will not be about celebrating.

this poem will not be about you being comfortable enough 
to have a difficult conversation, 
nor will it be about why you should. 

it’s simply a poem about love…and a lover, 
the love of a lover, 

and if we know anything about love, 
we know it has a way of moving people in ways
nothing else can, 

so while this poem is about man, it’s about much more. 
it’s about what Mandela said 
“comes more naturally to the human heart than it’s opposite.”

this is a love poem.
a Black love poem that needs to distinguish itself from any other kind of love poem, 
because any other kind of love poem simply will not suffice for the occasion, 
and for it’s association with darkness, and night, and sleep, and chaos, and dreams and you and me, and so this has to be a Black love poem, because that’s where the possibilities begin.

and love is all about possibilities.

even more, love is revolutionary. 
and it can sound contradictory, love being the more natural condition of man, 
and being revolutionary, but i have a theory:

to love means to be a lover, 
and to be a lover, one recognizes the intense emotions and affection that come as a result of that state, at which point movement occurs, from the state of unknowing toward that which one loves. 

we can simply imagine it as turning…
and if we turn a lover around, 
i mean, if we literally turn the word LOVER around…
you have the beginning of REVOLution
you have the beginnings of a revolution, 
and that love, 
that lover, 
that turning, 
that revolution is what this poem is all about.

so, while this poem may masquerade as a day of service in exchange for a life of servitude, 
or a simple acknowledgment for backs empires were built upon,
and bones crushed when they eventually crumbled.

and while 
maybe we need a different kind of poem today… 
the type of poem that scares its friends and neighbors—
the kind of poem people ask questions about in hushed tones 
for fear of affiliation/identification with its subject matter.
or the kind of poem no one would be shocked to hear
was murdered by a city cop,
under the cover of night, or in broad daylight,
because the poem pissed enough of the right people off to be offed
in front of God and entire world to prove the point:
poems need to watch what they say and who they say it to

this poem is simply a Black poem, 
a love poem
a Black love poem,
for you, 

today, 

in the spirit of
Imamu Amiri, 
Malcolm, 
Martin and 
Mandela…

all brothers in a struggle,

all lovers 
who turned around.

[*this poem was written for, and delivered at Clemson University's 32nd Annual Martin Luther King, Jr. Celebration Commemoration Service, January 22st, 2014]"

Black Love Poem [for Amiri, Malcolm, Martin and Mandela]*

“[1: A.D. Carson]
Listen, 
From the position I sit in, niggas is little to me. 
You hear the hunger in my voice—niggas is vittles to me. 

Riddle me this, nigga: How could I not feel myself?
If I was you, and you was me, I’d prob’ly kill myself. 

So get to doing. You and who are greater than The Dot?
Since ‘Aristotle’ they been planning ways to make him stop. 

You need my heart for that. 
Beast when I be speaking speeches. 

See, they infected like, ‘cause my bread rise like it’s leaking yeast. It’s
pieces of me I leave on tracks. I gotta be this way. 
Niggas ain’t real up in they raps, but I leave DNA. 
Oh, A-N-D, I see, they swear they flows’ cold. 
When they talking they all husky. 
Can’t bark with big dogs. My job is to hush puppies. 

Mush. Trust, he ain’t never losing. 
They talking jazz, but they trash—yeah, they Carlos Booz-in’.
You must be drunk, chump. 
No matter who they claim to be, they all sound the same to me. 
They calling him ‘The Great’ because I’m standing where they aim to be. 

And that’s okay if you shoot for the stars, 
but, shit, I’m more like a planet. Look for Jupiter…Mars. 

But come correct.
If you choosing to spar. 
I’ll leave you punch drunk. Nigga, I get stupid in bars.



[2: Preme]
From the position I sit in, niggas is little to me.
In beast mode with the flowin’, niggas is Skittles to me.

I’m bout that action boss, I ain’t with the talkin’, yappin’.
We don’t negotiate with flunkies, nigga call ya captain.

Dealin’ with false indictments, niggas say I lost the passion.
These niggas coonin’ on beats and then try to call it rappin’.

It often happens, can’t even say that I’m shocked at all.
I left the game in yo hands and you niggas dropped the ball.

Now niggas frontin’ on me like I ain’t the best to do it.
Like I ain’t the sole fuckin’ reason that you stepped into it
Like I ain’t inspire you, you, and the rest to do it.
Forget the music, you niggas need to be executed.

So bring ‘em to me, they head in the guillotine, nigga.
Sayin’ you greater than I is the sweetest dream, nigga.
I gave you niggas permission to be the king, nigga.
Y’all actin’ like y’all ain’t fruit from the tree of Preme, nigga.

My opposition nonexistent, ain’t no competition.
I jot the sickest compositions when it’s time for spittin’.

You niggas rappin’ bout the block and how you scorin’ kis.
So when you get caught, come see me bout ya lawyer fees.

Step in my office, we can talk about our loan rates, generate ya credit score;
40 years old and living with Mom is what you headed for.

Still trappin’ to buy some shoes and car,
'til they lock ya dumbass in jail, yeah that’s stupid with bars.”  




Hush Puppies [feat. Preme]

"“Turn up. Turn up. Turn up.
Turn up.
Turn up. Turn up. Turn up.
Yes. Yes. 

No, literally…turn it up.

Word on the street is my words on the street, like heat.
Dopeboy, flip birds on a beat.

Dead wrong like whales on a beach.

Wish well—set sails in the seat
of the king. All hail at the feet, prepare for defeat.
Don’t walk, just kneel as I speak. 

Chef boy, make meals when I think.

Don’t sleep, when I blink
don’t think I’m asleep—it’s a wink
for the hood; hoodwinked, what you think
of the speech that I speak when I speak? 

Or the thoughts that I think when I think?
Or the cost of the links that I clink?

Nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga…
For the niggas I figured I could make it realer.

I’m one—a certified Nigga…

Mike Dunn is a certified killa.

A nigga kid killa riddled him with the bullets, and pulled off into the night, 
barely ambivalent. Do it really matter?

[No]
You can kill a nigga.

Word on the street is my words on the street, like heat.
Dopeboy, flip birds on a beat.

Dead wrong like whales on a beach.
Dead wrong like boys on the streets.

Black boys get killed every week.
A black boy’s being killed as I speak…

You can stop and frisk ‘em. 
You can stop and frisk ‘em.

Word on the street’s I’m a suspect
And I ain’t even know it. Guess what’s next?

You can kill a nigga. 
You can kill a nigga

Word on the streets is my words on the street, like heat.
Dopeboy, flip birds on a beat.

Dead wrong like whales on a beach.

Wish well—set sails in the seat
of the king, all hail at the feet, prepare for defeat.
Don’t walk, just kneel as I speak,.

Chef boy, make meals when I think.

Don’t sleep, when I blink
don’t think I’m asleep—it’s a wink
for the hood; hoodwinked, what you think
of the speech that I speak when I speak? 

Or the thoughts that I think when I think?
Or the cost of the links that I clink?

Nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga…
For the niggas I figured I could make it realer.

I’m one—a certified Nigga.

Mike Dunn is a certified killa.

A nigga kid killa riddled him with the bullets, and pulled off into the night, 
barely ambivalent. Do it really matter?
 
[No]
You can kill a nigga.

Word on the street is my words on the street, like heat.
Dopeboy, flip birds on a beat.

Dead wrong like whales on a beach.
Dead wrong like boys on the streets.

Black boys get killed every week.
A black boy’s being killed as I speak.

You can stop and frisk ‘em. 
You can stop and frisk ‘em.

Word on the street’s I’m a suspect.
And I ain’t even know it. Guess what’s next?

You can kill a nigga. 
You can kill a nigga

Word on the street is my words on the street, like heat.
Dopeboy, flip birds on a beat.

Dead wrong like whales on a beach.

Wish well—set sails in the seat
of the king, all hail at the feet, prepare for defeat.
Don’t walk, just kneel as I speak.

Chef boy, make meals when I think.

Don’t sleep, when I blink
don’t think I’m asleep—it’s a wink
for the hood; hoodwinked, what you think
of the speech that I speak when I speak?

Or the thoughts that I think when I think?”

[Instrumental from "O.G. Bobby Johnson" by Que]"

OG Michael Dunn [Turn Up] [OG Bobby Johnson Remix]

“[1]
I used to be the kind of guy who was kind of fly
kind of like the type who like to ride a bike despite the sun not shining bright.
I like to think it was perspective, but if I was perceptive
then I’d know it’s cause I was neglected. 
Mother f’n up the child support checks wit’
whatever she dealt with—card house falling on itself.
So my heart turns cold—poppa at the club, try'n'a get paid; 
diamonds a girl’s best friend; we call a spade by his name.
And I saying this emotionally, supposing if we 
had the Huxtable family, then that luxury could’ve damaged me more
than I am, and, see, I don’t believe in mistakes like
snake bites, brakes lights, nothing more than fate, right?
Crap shoot, shake dice. At least you took the gamble.
A man don’t got a chance if he just watching from the side. 
It’s easy to say, “He lost.” but harder to say “I tried.”
It’s simple to know the theory…let’s see it when it’s applied.
Supply and demand manhandles many, and anybody who’s tellin’ you diff’rent prob'ly
don’t understand economics. 
You see, that bike I was riding around on when it was cloudy, 
was really just to prepare me for folks who were stationary
and daring me to be diff’rent, I channeled it into this. It’s
medicinally elicited, written like a prescription, shit.

Take two listens and call me when you get it.
I’ll write you another one that’s more potent if you don’t feel it. But you will. 

[Hook]
And I meant it just for you...
For when you need some words that are words that you listen to, 
or when you need ‘em to give, just distribute…
these few…are some that I use to get me through. 

You see, I’m not the same guy that I used to be, 
and if I’m judged by the past, then I’ll be glad to say that 
I can look at yesterday’s sorrows and see tomorrow, 
borrow lessons I learned, and turn ‘em into my future.


[2]
I used to be the kind of dude who was kinda rude. 
Blind from booze. Try’n’a lose myself in myself. Got into 
the driver’s seat, and I can speak from experience when I tell ya,
it’s a real thin line in between success and failure.
Heaven and Hell are rarely seen and described for the living. 
Either you get on with it or be imprisoned by the constant thoughts, 
the kind of talk that make you doubt your purpose. 
They only see your surface. If you believe your worth is 
less or greater, let ‘em make you buy into it, there’s your fate, ‘cause
you are who determines who you will be. Not him or me.  

You see that car I was driving around in when I was drinking
was really to get me thinking how this could end in a blink. 
And when my eyes opened—the cries choking back the pain— 
how can I explain how that’s a gain, except for saying,

“Take two listens and call me when you get it.
I’ll write you another one that’s more potent if you don’t feel it. But you will.” 

[Hook]
And I meant it just for you…
For when you need some words that are words that you listen to, 
or when you need ‘em to give, just distribute…
these few…are some that I use to get me through. 

You see, I’m not the same guy that I used to be, 
and if I’m judged by the past, then I’ll be glad to say that 
I can look at yesterday’s sorrows and see tomorrow, 
borrow lessons I learned, and turn ‘em into my future.

[3]
I’m not so certain that I even got the choice to press Play. 

I found myself by myself, told myself this discovery was monumental, 
because there were no subjects similarly stenciled, 
just me, and as long as I used pencil to craft my story, 
I could go back and erase the parts I didn’t like; 
I could fill in the spaces where I didn’t write; 
I could shade the pages or dim the lights where I deemed appropriate

because I was in control. 

I didn’t start the game, 
didn’t have to blow in a cartridge
to un-glitch it. I just had to “get with it.”

No series of switches or configuration of keystrokes 
gave me hope of one day winning. 

And I’m not even certain that I chose to press Play. 

I found myself by myself, told myself this discovery was monumental, 
because there were no subjects similarly stenciled, 
just me, and as long as I used pencil to craft my story, 
I could go back and erase the parts I didn’t like; 
I could fill in the spaces where I didn’t write; 
I could shade the pages or dim the lights where I deemed appropriate

because 

I was in control.

[Hook]
And I meant it just for you…
For when you need some words that are words that you listen to, 
or when you need ‘em to give, just distribute…
these few…are some that I use to get me through. 

You see, I’m not the same guy that I used to be, 
and if I’m judged by the past, then I’ll be glad to say that 
I can look at yesterday’s sorrows and see tomorrow, 
borrow lessons I learned, and turn ‘em into my future.”


Take Two Listens [Produced by Preme]

“Rap niggas who don't think much past figures are figurines, 
that you put in a cabinet for décor. You're listening 
to the evolution of revolution—won't be televised. 
Won't be tweeted, either; won't even see it with naked eyes.

I make it my number one priority. It's a war for the minds of the blind masses—
owning their own masters. 

They think the sheep in the pasture are eating grass, 
so they leave 'em to eat and don't even ask if they need it. After believing 
the propaganda, they properly propagate/copulate, 
and eat the same shit that they poppas ate, 
then they populate the planet planning to live off Arm & Hammer, 
to manage or make a living, since when is there harm in handling business?

You know, the damage of living inside a fantasy comes after understanding
that nothing's gonna be handed to you. 

The greatest trick you can pull involves wool 
and your eyes, and involves tying it tightly enough to blind you. 

[Hook]
Do what I tell you—search, and go find the Ledge
that I Know you don't know about, and then wait for what Simon Says. 

And since I know you can't see it, and you're kind of scared, 
just down a few pills, pop 'em and wait till you're outta there. 

Now, I'm a dare you to do it, and it sounds stupid, but jump—
I promise you that it's fun and it's what you want. 

Your role models are doing it, why should you not?
Cop quick. What's life living outside a shoebox?

[Verse 2]:
So, we got no more MLKs, Malcolms or Tupacs. 

All we have are Michaels and Jordans...and a few shots.

“It's all just a game, and we just the players.
That wasn't us. That was Mike Dunn and Jordan Davis. 
Or Trayvon and Zimmerman.” 

Play back. Listen again. 
Danger: Ignorance works like a carcinogen. 
Revving a car engine in park after it's started's not
doing shit but making loud noise in the parking lot.

We can walk it out for miles, march, demonstrate and protest, 
but it won't mean a goddamned thing. It's just gon' show next
time the line can be moved farther and be more obvious.
He said 50 years ago when the time for martyrs is.

So this ain't radical—it ain't me starting shit. 
It's me saying, maybe cash in on your country's promises.

Or wake up from that dream that you seem to be in
and take a hard look, for your kids, what you're 'bout to leave 'em.

[Hook]
Do what I tell you—search, and go find the Ledge
that I Know you don't know about, and then wait for what Simon Says. 

And since I know you can't see it, and you're kind of scared, 
just down a few pills, pop 'em and wait till you're outta there. 

Now, I'm a dare you to do it, and it sounds stupid, but jump—
I promise you that it's fun and it's what you want. 

Your role models are doing it, why should you not?
Cop quick. What's life living outside a shoebox?

[Verse 3: Louis Farrakhan]:
It’s time now for you to be delivered. 

America can’t hold you no more. 

She has no jobs for you, 

her factories closing down—

all she has is a plan of death for you. 

And that’s why drugs are in the black community. 

That’s why guns are in the black community.
You’re not shooting down your open enemy. 
You’re shooting each other down. 

But you’re going to pay a price

for killing your people. 

I’m gonna tell you the price in a minute, 
and then I’m through. 

But you will face EVERY word that you hear me say…”

[Hook]
Do what I tell you—search, and go find the Ledge
that I Know you don't know about, and then wait for what Simon Says. 

And since I know you can't see it, and you're kind of scared, 
just down a few pills, pop 'em and wait till you're outta there. 

Now, I'm a dare you to do it, and it sounds stupid, but jump—
I promise you that it's fun and it's what you want. 

Your role models are doing it, why should you not?
Cop quick. What's life living outside a shoebox?”


Find The Ledge [Produced by Preme]

Word. [Produced by Preme]

Some words + Some Music from the late, great J. Dilla.

Going For Dilla [Produced By J. Dilla]

"From Dr. Kumanyika: "TONIGHT IN HATE MAIL
For tonight's episode we have a special treat that is not actually hate mail but a hilarious and horrific snippet of conservative talk radio. (Courtesy of Jermaine Durham) The second caller was at the Trump rally and gives her own account of the events. What is incredible about her account is that I agree with about 96% of the basic facts of what she said. In that respect you will find the context helpful. She confirms among other things that I did sit down etc. The actions of authorities etc. But her account is given through the fascinating lens of what might be called "colorblind white fear of the other." The results are both riveting and instructive. Enjoy.""


"SC Conservative Radio 94.5 About Dr. Chenjerai Kumanyika"

"https://www.facebook.com/AydeeTheGreat/videos/10153999576297195/

I’m from where the
murder rate is disturbing but no curbing the crime.
Time and time again you’ll find the swine has a purpose but trying
to protect and serve—ain’t the one you see ‘em doing.

Hear the pistol fire and it’s likely them that’s shooting.

Ain’t no policing the police, but at least we all know it.
And ain’t no dreaming in the streets about being a poet.
We owe it all to public schools where the rules is to show it
that you know the answers to the test but unless it’s an oval

that we filling in, then the feeling is like swimming and drowning.
And Black is Black. We don’t distinguish from cinnamon, brown and
mahogany, onyx and all of it’s chronic so we swallowing tonic
and wallowing all in it…see I find it ironic
that this is iconic. It’s marketed, so you want it, and I sell with promise.
And I can guarantee—
he’s got a bullet and a badge and took an oath to protect and to serve, but just a look
and he’s scared of me.

And I’m aware that he is, but I wonder are you.
And they ain’t asking you to freeze ‘fore they open and shoot.
I know you think “He got degrees,” but I’m hopeless as you.
A nigga with a PhD’s still a nigga when blue lights flash and I match the description
ain’t no explaining that.
Ain’t no amount of philosophy spit negating that.
Can’t quote a book and then hope you out,
if he’s got a badge and he believes that he can choke you out.
Hands up; stand up, and they shooting you down.
So keep your eyes on your mirror when you cruise through your town.
I’m from where the boys in blue don’t play.
Cough up a lung where I’m from—USA…"


Where I'm From

"[1]
Funny I pour my heart and soul into bars.
I used to go to bars to get full and pull ‘em apart.

Many falls—and scars—led to many starts.
It all was simple. Gunfire sounded like starter pistols.

On your marks, get set. Know your lane and your pace, so
you can finish strong or be ready for when they say, “Go."

The city where I got practice
kind of tried to teach us success had restricted access

to me and mine,
while we was drafting some decent rhymes,
crafting sequences, accenting features of frequent crime.
Teachers passing us, actually, leaving us more behind.
Seeking the same from girls in my classes. Think, in my mind,
if I find I can finally freak and even repeat it,
bring it up in discussions ‘cause nothing like this is secret,
then
I might be the kind of  man I imagine.
And even if I’m not, I can say I am when I’m rapping.

[Hook]
I used to scribble in my notebooks,
Wishing I could go through living
How them folks do when I used to write.

And all the visions I would go through
wishing I could hold to, living,
I suppose those scribbles are my life.

[If it's a luxury, still it ain't enough to me,
but what I write is what I be.]

[2]
Funny it sound like I’m judging when I write sentences,
and that’s about the most I can show you I got conviction with.

I mean, I sit and get
frustrated often
by the rush, laying coffins
in the dust, saying, “Pardon my

interruption,
but I’m off making what I can
from the nothing I inherited and carry with me
so, of course, I want a lotta shit buried with me
and I hurry, quickly, to places that's preparatory to me
meeting my
maker, or my momma’s worst nightmare.

It ain’t coincidence I’m into living right there,
at the intersection where the winter’s less and less the
coldest feeling that’s possessed by me. And my profession seems to
see and be the freshest. So the cooler means success.

Even if it’s to the death
I might be the kind of  man I imagine.
And even if I’m not, I can say I am when I’m rapping.”

[Hook]
I used to scribble in my notebooks,
Wishing I could go through living
How them folks do when I used to write.

And all the visions I would go through
wishing I could hold to, living,
I suppose those scribbles are my life.

[If it's a luxury, still it ain't enough to me,
but what I write is what I be.]

[3]
It’s vivid like Richard Wright when I write for riches.
Write like Eric—Easy when I’m writing scriptures.
Right and wrong—no different when I’m writing songs.
Preach when I speak
almost like I’m writing psalms.

Coolie High—I tell you, nigga, truly I
can go from cool mu’fucka to unruly guy.

Write until
ain’t nothing left to write.
Write to death
to keep you moving right to left.

[Hook]
I used to scribble in my notebooks,
Wishing I could go through living
How them folks do when I used to write.

And all the visions I would go through
wishing I could hold to, living,
I suppose those scribbles are my life.

[If it's a luxury, still it ain't enough to me,
but what I write is what I be.]"

Scribbles [Produced By Truth]

"[1]
If you never said you wanted what was real
then it was unexpected when I told you how I feel.

When I say I don’t know much, no, it ain’t fiction
but I can only tell you how I’m living. And my vision
is a mirror image, splitting where I’m from and where I’m going,
hopefully with precision like a poet who’s performing.
And my brainstorming's more like rain pouring while I’m crying,
so I change more than I explain, or I like to try it.

The lives of giants require a bigger picture
so it could sound offensive to hear that I spit for niggas.
But the itchy trigger fingers of killers cutting them down
matched with plenty bigger things that I see could be more profound
has me really, really thinking my voice can be more resounding
if I match the proper adjectives, verbs, listen to nouns, and

try to say it how I heard it when I heard it.

So it’s deliberately worded how it’s worded.

[Hook]
They say its often The US that’ll up and pull it
But US is very different when punctuated with bullets.

U.S.—ask and they’ll probably say
in target practice using our backs, they get an A.

And they ain’t grading on a curve.
Say it to they face, they say you grating on they nerves,
by bringing up the past, and saying certain words.
Tell them that it's racist it’s like you said a slur.

[2]
So the conversation is over.
I’m the Black guy who will consciously make your quota.
No game—credit will not be given.
Speaking to existence is more than a superstition.
I’m a let you finish, but after I hope you listen.
The ignorance you live in can be your personal prison.

And I got a certain suspicion,
but very few fucks, so it ain’t worth it to give ‘em.

And if I had ‘em to spare,
then I could write a thesis just to teach that it’s there,
but you could likely see the same aggrievements I’d prepare.
‘Cause that’s what people do when people care.

But you stay in set your positions.
Don’t want the world to change so you change the definitions.
Pretend the world that I describe is not the world you live in
but still you’d like to hear from me forgiveness.

[Hook]
They say its often The US that’ll up and pull it
But US is very different when punctuated with bullets.

U.S.—ask and they’ll probably say
in target practice using our backs, they get an A.

And they ain’t grading on a curve.
Say it to they face, they say you grating on they nerves,
by bringing up the past, and saying certain words.
Tell them that it's racist it’s like you said a slur."

Grading On A Curve [Produced by Truth]

"[1: A.D. Carson]
They got me trapped. I’m only trying to do right.
I’m driving. In my mirror, see the red, white and blue lights,
and just have to consider as I pull off to the shoulder of the street
if I really broke any laws or if it’s more to do with me
having the blood of a slave fueling the heart of a king,
and the temperament to make sure that this officer sees
me as a citizen, a denizen, ‘cause this is my home.
No search and seizure—even believing when you’re in Rome
you live like Romans. When you’re American and you’re black,
and try to exercise your rights you find a foot in your back—
That’s if you’re lucky. And if you’re not, you’re dead on the spot.
That’s literal and a metaphor. The weather is hot,
and you ain’t got much control. They want you sweating and scared.


And that pistol that I got papers for that’s sitting right there
inside the dash; I wonder if that’s ‘bout to ignite it
as the officer asks for registration, insurance and license.

[Hook: Truth & Preme]
They got us trapped.
Nah, they can’t keep the Black man down.

Yo, Dilla, they got me trapped.
Uh-uh, they can’t keep the Black man down.

[2: Truth]
Rest in peace to Trayvon and Michael Brown.
“We kill and get away. How you like us now?”
is what they badge should say as they ride around.
They took his breath away as they pried him down.
“Let's give a ton of fame to the ones who banging …
million dollar contracts and they can train ‘em.
Yo, young’n move that dope. Nigga, stop complaining.”
Shooting up the block with improper aiming.

Sometimes I feel like …
that Obama left us hanging.
Inauguration, he said we changing.
Instead I see discrimination
as I'm gaining.
They rather work with people like them.
I can't blame ‘em.
Offices and in the streets,
they restraining.
Airing it on Fox TV instead of hangings.

You smart, you probably let me go G,
or keep me cooped up in this ghetto and catch the Uzi.

[Hook: Truth & Preme]
They got me trapped.
Nah, they can’t keep the Black man down.

They got us trapped.
Uh-uh, they can't keep the Black man down."

Trapped [Produced By Truth]

Son Shines [featuring C - Style]

"People ask me why I say the shit I say in front of white folks,
as if the things I say should just remain with me and my folks,
but why folks
be thinking my communication’s harsh

when sentences they say have niggas locked behind them bars,

and stories they be telling and be publishing in books
will turn around and make fucking saint out of a crook.

And faces that I look at doing crime ain’t just like mine
but you won’t get that picture if you stay inside the lines
and so I stay inside a mind dividing time on either side of truth and lies
because we’re meant to scrutinize. Who decides who we get euthanized by?
Not shootings, drive bys,
or “black-on-black crime,”
I’m wondering ‘bout them white lies
that they be telling you and I ‘bout you and I in U-N-I-
versities so verses be the the truest kind. I’m looking for congruent minds to match my wits with.
When truth get hard, they nitpick.
But I ain’t trying to argue with no nitwit.

[Hook]
So you can go tell ‘em I said it. I meant it. I’ll tell ‘em myself if they willing to hear it.

[I ain't running away from my words
just make sure I said what you heard.]

You can go tell ‘em I said it. I meant it. I’ll tell ‘em myself if they willing to hear it.

[I don't care it you're feeling disturbed
or that you feel it's absurd.]

You can go tell ‘em I said it. I meant it. I’ll tell ‘em myself if they willing to hear it.

[If my word is my bond
I gotta be certain that I'm
observant and working with mine.]

You can go tell ‘em I said it.
I meant it.
I’ll tell ‘em myself.

[2]
I don’t need another February. Seldom, very rarely, next to never
should you put the education ‘bout your greatness on oppressors.

So what he has to teach you
comes more from how he treats you.
And not just when he need you or your people.
I peep bull.
It’s all beef.
And I don’t have no cares ‘bout what they call me.
I’m all me.
And for that, I’m not sorry.
So hard we work to hardly herd the heart that hurts the hardly heard,
and we’re disturbed
by how often that pot is stirred.
So when they turn and say it’s race bait when I’m calling out race hate
I keep on talking. I ain’t trying to placate
or waste space trying to debate the hate haters create with its creator.
I make haste. Lying ain’t got no place in my relations.
So statements ain’t offending me,
nor is your opinion of me,
it’s more or less the the moral-less supremacy.
Since people have them tendencies from coming through this system we call living
I guess they think that shit should be forgiven. It ain’t.

[Hook]

[3]
I don’t want you to do me no favors.
I don’t want you to do me no solids.
I don’t want you to teach me your hatred.
I don’t want to be ruled by your scholars.
I don’t want to be seen as your problem.
My problem is what you created,
then you framed it as if it was me,

insisted that you should debate it.

I take it as kind of a compliment
that I often get the blame for the shit that I cannot control.
But if we discuss it, it’s really insulting.
I come from the people whose land that you stole,
bodies you took. And I can’t trust a guy who’s a crook
with a view that denies me a look,
and then puts it inside of a book that they teach me to read, if they do,
it’s to treat me like I should be shook.

And that's only the half.
I'll travel the loneliest path
doing felonious math,
erroneous, maybe, but these are the stakes: the baloney you gave me

is created from wrongs that have made me
the man that you hate, see?

But it ain't me...
so it can't be.

That American Dream seems like hell of a scheme.

And it’s deep…’cause in order to dream, then you gotta be sleep.

And what am I, but a guy interrupting the lullaby?
And if that don’t work. So what, I try.

[Hook]

[Outro]
E. Dunlap: Y’all remember that story about Issey?
Old Sawney’s daughter?

You know, they say she tried to burn down the plantation house.

Shit...

I wish she had’ve done that shit.

And you can tell ‘em I said it...

‘cause I did."

Talking To White Folks [I Said It] [Produced By Preme]

"[Hook]: 
You can call ‘em best in the West or the best in the league. 
Best of the best or the best that we see. 

Those are big shoes to fill ‘til we see
who’s the real MVP. 

They was tested together, but they’re better on their own. 
Let’s see who is inheriting the throne. 

[Verse]:
Now that it’s head to head we can call it because it’s started. 
Dearly departed, this here’s not for the faint of heart. 
But instead, it’s a question, one you can ponder, and even wonder. 
Search the sky for the gods, only one of ‘em brings the Thunder. 

One of ‘em came to Rocket, and truly ought to be feared. Not just for the beard. 
This guy’s truly out of this sphere. 
But not for nothing, with Russ in the discussion, then we talking ‘bout 
the league leading scorer taking everything and walking out. 

Few words from the curious crowd.
If not a Trey, he’ll stop, pop, like Furious Styles.
They leave audiences screaming more mo’, boy.
It’s like Harden be serving ‘em from the do’, boy. 
Giving out dishes, then torching and burn they home.
Medusa to the shooter. They look and they turn to stone.

They out to win, and really won’t get it subtle. 
And that’s how you explain the fifty point triple doubles. 

[Hook]: 
You can call ‘em best in the West or the best in the league. 
Best of the best or the best that we see. 

Those are big shoes to fill ‘til we see
who’s the real MVP. 

They was tested together, but they’re better on their own. 
Let’s see who is inheriting the throne. 

Those are big shoes to fill. Will we see
who’s the real MVP?"

Bleacher Report: "The Real MVP" [Produced by Preme]

Something about the idea of changing...or staying the same...or the conflict that arises when trying to combat the inevitable with the desire to please another.  Actually, just words set to music.  RIP J-Dilla. 

Useless Meandering Through Sundrous Thoughts Of Game Playing And Losing Self

Vacay

There’s a long-held belief that
how to get to where we at
is do the things that we did.
So, soon to be repeated 
are the stories of the struggles that my brothers and I went through—
staring out the windows of apartment buildings, 
building our imaginations, waitin’, patient, not complacent, 
hatin’ stomach achin’. Momma makin’ eggs and bacon.
Left too late to take the public transportation, 
so it’s pacin’ on our own two.
I never really want to,
but paintin’ for you pictures, so you’re sure to see it vividly,
is how you will remember me,
and if not, you can visit me in memories.
I mention these to give you the illusion that I’m using what I learned,
but really Truth is complicated. 

I kind of made it more to cope with 
the “dope” shit,
the day we all lose hope in,
the twist, and tell nobody you inhale ‘cause you in Hell,
and you’ve been well behind the “well” drinks. 
A sloppy little secret—
your friends are all so thoughtful, so they keep it.
You’re seeking higher answers, and Granny’s Cancer can’t be canceled out, 
so you’re like Jo Jo Dancer—man enough to stand and walk it out.
I’m talkin’ ‘bout the love you lost that
barely gave you your heart back.
Inspiration for Art that
almost got you to start back
on that downward spiral that made you feel you were alive
because you’re facin’ your death in every second, and you’re surprised
‘cause you ain’t died,
and you ain’t wise enough to know why.
You just want more, and you can’t find enough in your guys.
And it ain’t no High, no Love to talk you out of your Hate,
so your breaking point is the moment you decided your fate.
And you take it upon yourself to go’on and write it all down
despite the fact it’s real emotional, or how it might sound. 

Belief [A Complicated Truth]

When they ask for it, never tell ‘em no. Let it go, 
put a pen to the pad—it’s an effervescent flow.
Definitely know—I’m a product of the era I was brought up in—
competition slaughtering for fun.
Might’ve mentioned guns as a shorty for attention.
Not to say they wasn’t in my area, but listen, 
my competition, they never wanted me dead, 
they wanted decapitation, they saw that I was ahead, 
heard that I told tales, knew that I did it well
Sisyphusean descriptions—I live in my own Hell.

It’s populated by heat that I hand make—flip a coin—
no matter how it lands, where you’re going—
is through they alleyways, back blocks, tenements, 
where if he don’t call a girl a bitch, he’s a gentleman. 
Misogyny expected—Sodom and Gomorrah.
Scary movie mind state—the problem ain’t the horror. 

In the movies, we die in the first scene, 
so we’re all really Drew Barrymore in the first Scream,
only it’s set in Harlem, maybe it’s in Detroit, 
the audience prays you don’t turn around—it ain’t The Voice. 
You fall as you’re running to get away— 
felonious metaphor, you do a year and a day.
Or die trying, 
lie silent, 
crack infested—surrounded by thirst, it’s Rock Island.
From 217 to 309, niggas open they rhyme books up and bleed on lines,
hope for some recognition—to cheat on dimes, 
ladies like Changing Faces, and we don’t mind.

Bars over the head like snatch lifts, 
dope boy antithesis—rhyme with a back flip.
Flip back one chapter,  finish the exposition—
Juice, on the roof, I’m standing right next to Bishop;
Raheem’s dead and Steel got shot—
We all know how the story ends—still I watch. 
Excited to see the violence—destined to See It Through.
Kinda funny, back in school, I pledged: I’m a Q.

Grew up in the era of ass whooppins
switches, belts, knuckles for mad lookin’, 
bus transfers, bummy and bad lookin’, 
lunchtime ciphers, dice get cash tooken. 

C-Style—A-dot, kind of the same guy—
Aries and Virgo—we should have been Gemini.
'Cause since shorties it was just him and I
talking more shit than a little bit, 
ignorant.
Wasn’t all good, but I choose how to remember it.
Mention it 'cause he sent me the track for me to spit to it.
97 Canibus, jaw dropped listening;
nobody spit like he did, and it’s been a minute since 
I had inspiration—so I listened closely.
Wondered what I’d say in conversation with the old me. 

“Stop drinking, pig is a filthy animal, 
if an elephant’s in the room, then you should be Hannibal, 
scribble down in your notebook all you can manage to
wait ten years, then publish it as the manual.”



A.D. Carson

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