Please visit http://phd.aydeethegreat.com for better quality audio download of this dissertation project.

Owning My Masters: The Rhetorics of Rhymes and Revolutions

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]

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

"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]

"[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]*

"If you like metaphor or prefer literal,
I’m from Illinois, and I rhyme like the first syllable—
sick, and I’m nice, hospitable.
Ask and I give—16 of a hot spittable.

The hospital operates as a symbol for
my temperament, delivering sentiments you were wishing for…
or maybe it’s the dope you were itching for,
twitching for, took it too fast, now you’re living for.

Jungle Fever’s Gator; New Jack City’s Pookie;
kick fly shit—don’t blame rappers for trying to shoo me.
Truly unruly, live like a movie and keep it Goonie.
Think like Malcolm Little, but say it like Paul Mooney. 

Who is he really? Ask me that question; I find it silly, 
but I respond, then I keep on, like I’m looking for the real me...
searching for meaning, find what I’m needing, living per diem, 
seek and you’ll see him; don’t and you won’t; I know the feeling.

He speaks, 
/and it’s/ less abstract than a backpack on a mountain—
the one I’m gone tell it on, whispering, not shoutin’. I’m cool. 
And if I’m cool, then I’m cold, and these cold words, 
are code words that you see in/action like no verbs. 
I’ll wait.

Distraction’s a master—an old game,
the type that has the player embracing his own chains.

If silence is golden, then you can hold it, 
know it, know the way to expose it and still condone it [or own it].

But it’s too easy to think it before you blink, 
let your eyes close, then deny you were ever sleep. 
Or convince yourself that your dream is literally your passion,
wake up, and never remember, like history never happened.

To auction on blocks is square dealings, 
then we all bow down to say prayers in square buildings. 
Man made in His image—trying to kill his God:
a paradox in a box, like Phil and Oz."

Golden Silence ["Live" From Saas-Fee, Switzerland]

“[James Baldwin]: 
“I’m going to improvise, like a writer, on some assumptions. 

And, though I feel a little uneasy in doing this—and saying this—nevertheless, 
what a writer is obliged, at some point, to realize 
is that he’s involved in a language 
which he has to 

change.”

[1]
He walked from just above rock bottom, to not stardom, 
but starting to understand my problems are probably all my own. 
And know, homie, I’m holding my own, 
owning my own plan like the man I was destined to be. 
A dot desires the finer. 
Denies the defining. 
He lies where the diamonds you find in the rough are stuffed—
No fucks given. If it’s just living then live yours. 
I’ll live mine, and we’ll cross courses in due time. 
If not, then no bother, I’m hardly at odds wit it, 
I chill—a homebody—attracted to odd women. 
Party wit’ gods—nope, not church, not a façade. 
I read books for fun, make students out of a squad.

It’s not a game, not the same shit you’re used to. 
I do it cause I find it suitable – and hope you will decide it’s beautiful. 
But never my aim is to make what you want how you want when you want it,
I make what I like when I write. I’m alright when it’s right, so I’m writing this here in this moment.

[Hook]
So, fuck what you want.
I write what I what I write.
And I’m cool. So what if you don’t.
I like what I like.
I’m impatient, and blatantly making my statements despite
any space of complacency. 
I write what I like.

So, fuck what you want.
I write what I what I write.
And I’m cool. So what if you don’t.
I like what I like.
I’m impatient, and blatantly making my statements despite
any space of complacency. 
I write what I like.

[2]
Every time they say, “I’m different” I hear ‘em but I don’t listen.
I’m near ‘em, but I don’t feel like we close to the same position. 
I spit like I’m on a mission to kill ‘em. A mercenary, I hit ‘em 
with verses dare ‘em to stand toe-to-toe wit’ me. 
I’m ready, but they ain’t really ‘bout that do it ‘cause they do it. 
They be doing what they thinking everybody else be doing. 
That’s stupid. 
I’m on that do what I be wanting to hear. 
So, if you like it, then that’s cool, ‘cause I got more of it here. 
And If you don’t, then that’s alright, you can move on to the rear. 
It ain’t my job to make you love it if you don’t, then it’s clear. 
So it’s back to the black hoodie, back to the black fitted, 
back to the basics. Hate it or take it. It’s black business. 

It’s not a game, not the same shit you’re used to. 
I do it cause I find it suitable – and hope you will decide it’s beautiful. 
But never my aim is to make what you want how you want when you want it,
I make what I like when I write. I’m alright when it’s right, so I’m writing this here in this moment.

[Hook]
So, fuck what you read.
I write what I what I write.
And I know, but fuck what she said.
I like what I like.
I’m impatient, and blatantly making my statements despite
any space of complacency. 
I write what I like.

Fuck what you read.
I write what I what I write.
And I know, but fuck what she said.
I like what I like.
I’m impatient, and blatantly making my statements despite
any space of complacency. 
I write what I like.


[3]
No shade, but this rap shit’s so played, and filled with actors, 
and scripts it’s like Hamlet, quite the cast of characters. 
I find it precarious [look it up]. 
I just want to do what I do, and I look at us 
and say, “Do it. 
No pretense. No pre-rinse. No pretend. No free days. No weekends.” 
Know he spends - notes and ends - with lonely friends, 
from the start until the dope beat ends. 
And while I’m at it, that’s Preme on the track, give him a hand for
keys, strings, kick drum, snare—it’s just a sample
of what I’m saying we do, and we got ample 
ammo. 
Joe, we cool like a pack of Camels.

It’s not a game, not the same shit you’re used to. 
I do it cause I find it suitable – and hope you will decide it’s beautiful. 
But never my aim is to make what you want how you want when you want it,
I make what I like when I write. I’m alright when it’s right, so I’m writing this here in this moment.
.
[Hook]
So, fuck what you think, 
I write what I what I write.
Do you. Drink what you drink.
I like what I like.
I’m impatient, and blatantly making my statements despite
any space of complacency. 
I write what I like.

Fuck what you think, 
I write what I what I write.
Do you. Drink what you drink.
I like what I like.
I’m impatient, and blatantly making my statements despite
any space of complacency. 
I write what I like.

[James Baldwin]: 
“I dropped into a silence 
in which I heard—for the first time really heard—and began to be able to try to deal with 
the beat 
of the language of the people who had produced me…

I was able to hear that music….”

[Additional vocals: Bad Dreams]” 


The Song I Should Have Written [Produced by Preme]

“[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]

The site of “the most exciting 25 seconds in college football”
was made possible by profits from the most shameful centuries in America’s history,
but come to the campus of Clemson University,
and you’d hardly be able to tell it from looking around. [i]

Solid Orange, you’ll see. [ii]

The grounds are perfectly manicured—alluring—
and monuments to the greatness that creates such institutions
stand as reminders from whence we came,
and since we gain so much from what we see,
we smile,
proud of the great tradition of which we have the benefit of saying we are now a part.

Solid Orange, we are.

And it’s easy to buy in—
it starts with “The Song that Shakes the Southland”
and a sea of solid orange—‘Tiger Rags’ that kind of grab you and say,

“You are now a member of this family!
You are now a Clemson Tiger.
Wear your orange proudly.”

but
it’s a pretty well known fact that tigers have stripes,
and almost as well known is the reason they do,
yet, Clemson University—home of the Tigers—
doesn’t do much acknowledging of
those dark marks it knows to be so integral a part
of its existence.

“Solid Orange,” we say…

at this university that was once a plantation,
slavery being “a positive good” according to Master Calhoun,
whose house sits, still,
on a plot atop a hill
overlooking the football field
—open seven days a week,
and I can even enter through the front door.

What I cannot do, however, is depend on the tour guide to give me the whole history
of the foundations of my university, because—
for some reason or another—
it’s uncomfortable for some people to talk about
slave owners, supremacists and segregationists on those terms,

or

it’s unknown to the individual responsible
for the dissemination of that information
about this place,
but

twenty score
and many more years ago
our forefathers brought forth on this continent
our forefathers and our foremothers
and exploited them for hundreds of years,
which led to our being
conceived in captivity
and “dedicated to the proposition”
that history is a matter
of telling the story that makes us look best.

“Solid Orange,” I think,

and that forces me to confront my active participation in
not only the crime, but the cover-up—
the whitewashing, with orange, of the dark parts of a
history meant to be instructional, lest we repeat it,

and
I repeatedly walk past the
Strom Thurmond Institute of Government and Public Affairs
and wonder, “Was it there that our ancestors were whipped?”
Because it happened.

Slavery was big business,
and
being black meant
you made profits to keep your master in the black,
and
if the master went into the red,
he’d see red and you’d be likely to wear
red stripes across your back—

fact.

And if that
is an uncomfortable truth for the institution, so be it.
These are the stripes we bear,

so see them.

Slavery, sharecropping and convict labor
paved the streets and sidewalks of this “high seminary of learning,”
and earning a degree from here tethers me to the legacy of that
and John C. Calhoun, Strom Thurmond, Thomas Green Clemson and
“Pitchfork” Ben Tillman, who,
with his henchmen, killed black members of a militia,
never to be convicted, but elected to public office—Governor—
to have statues and buildings erected in his honor, eventually. [iii]

The one on this beautiful campus houses the Calhoun Honors College
and the School of Education.

So be it, if it’s uncomfortable to bear those stripes.

See them,

because it’s not uncomfortable to reap the benefits of the labor that went into
building the buildings or tending the land,
but very much so
knowing the buildings and the land are stained with
years upon years of
the blood, sweat and tears
of slaves and sharecroppers and so-called criminals
who were lent to the institution to do the work that needed doing.

“Solid Orange,” they say.

And I say
The Tiger cannot survive without its stripes.

We cannot ignore
the troubling history that brought us to this,
our glorious institution,
with its memorials and monuments to “honorable” men,
and call ourselves a family.

And we’re damned if we think we’re doing ourselves any favors
coloring the history one hue.

One you,
one me,
one he,
one she,
one them,
won’t be
one us
‘til we strive to
see those stripes

The Tiger cannot survive without them.

The site of “the most exciting 25 seconds in college football”
was made possible by profits from the most shameful centuries in America’s history.

Those are the stripes we bear,
and before you decide to wear
that orange tee, or that painted paw,
think,
for a moment, about those stripes,
think
of the backs of the slaves,
think
about the strips of land,
and the sharecroppers tied to it after so-called emancipation,
think
of the uniform of that 13 year old boy ,
a slave of the state,
forced to help build the first buildings at this place, [iv]
think
of the dark matters that matter more than you know—
the difference between willing ignorance and active participation,
complicit denial and abject perpetuation—

before you
think
“Solid Orange,”
think
of how ridiculous a Solid Orange Tiger would look.
Think
of seeing its stripes,
think
of being its stripes,

and think
of how terrible it is
to not be seen,
to not be acknowledged,

think
about never being doomed to repeat
an atrocious history,
and being better
because of knowing better
and doing better

because as things are now,
we are The Tigers,
built on a legacy of slavery, sharecropping and convict labor,
by slave owners, supremacists and segregationists,

but come to the campus of Clemson University,
and you’d hardly be able to tell it from looking around.

And it’s a shame.

We’d be a beautiful Tiger…

if only

we could
see our stripes.

-------------------- 

[i] Quote credited to ESPN and ABC broadcaster, Brent Musburger, in reference to the team’s pregame ritual of rubbing “Howard’s Rock” before running down The Hill onto Frank Howard Field.

[ii] From the ‘Solid Orange’ page on Clemson’s website: “Solid Orange goes far beyond orange T-shirts. It’s thinking and acting like a winner, knowing that everything we do reflects on every other Tiger. It’s just part of what makes Clemson uniquely Clemson.”

[iii] The Hamburg Massacre occurred July 4, 1876, and resulted in the deaths of seven men.

[iv] The boy’s name is Wade Foster. More information on his and other stories about the “Convict Labor” at Clemson is available in Dr. Rhondda Thomas’s essay, ““Slaves of the State”: Convict Labor and Clemson University Land and Legacy” in The South Carolina Review, Volume 46, Number 2, Spring 2014.

The picture used in the video is of 14-year-old George Stinney, Jr., who, in 1944 became the youngest person legally executed in the United States in the 20th century. He was executed by the state of South Carolina.

See The Stripes [A Poem by A.D. Carson] [Music by Preme]

"[1]
When I say I Used to Love H.E.R.—yesterday I touched her—
I would be the first to tell you there would be no other.
After we were lovers, we couldn’t be friends, still…
like we were Neo and we OD-ed on that “real” pill.

Chilled—feel like we fell off and we would never be
back in sync. And to think it was like telepathy:

she believed what I thought when I never said it,
and I could be what she needed and never ‘get’ it.

Why me? She could have whoever she wanted, 
Never taunted, heaven was flaunted and I was on it.
So what changed to make ever-y-thing different?
Every sting signifi/can’t see no redemption?

Well, that’s a tale for the lovers with blind eyes
who speak of loyalty. Here is where mine lies: 
we’re bound to change as much as the mind tries…
[Oh, oh, time flies]

[Hook]
All we want is to have us some. 
And spend our lives just for ours to come.

If it flies when you’re having fun
what does it do when you’re having none?

It’s like wings on the clock and it never stops…
[Oh, oh, time flies] 
So think, and those thoughts’ll just make it start…
[Oh, oh, time] 
again.

[2]
When I say I used to hate him—yesterday I played him—
I would be the last to tell you anything. I made him
to a villain, devoid of all feelings, wanting to kill him. 
Ink spilled…imagine a pistol pointing at mirrors.
Trigger pulled, and the glass that would shatter wouldn’t be matter, 
I couldn’t be madder, ‘cause nothing would splatter. Nothing would happen. 
Just standing there, aiming, squeezing and thinking, holding and hoping,
breathing, waiting to leave, exposing myself to knowing that this wasn’t life. 
Wasn’t right to be so caught up in it. 
Was brought up in it, but don’t have to leave my thought up in it.
Taught who him is, I learned that he was just not an image.
He was us. That implicitly meant that I was in it.

Now, that’s a tale for the lovers with blind eyes
who speak of loyalty. Here is where mine lies: 
we’re bound to change as much as the mind tries…
[Oh, oh, time flies]


[Hook]
All we want is to have us some. 
And spend our lives just for ours to come.

If it flies when you’re having fun
what does it do when you’re having none?

It’s like wings on the clock and it never stops…
[Oh, oh, time flies] 
So think, and those thoughts’ll just make it start…
[Oh, oh, time] 
again."


Time Tales Tell [Produced by Truth]

"[1]
Even as I’m sitting down to write this, like it’s a letter home, 
feeling wrong in these bad lands, stand, and let alone. 
Let a loan put me in debt—inject the payback. 
They say that I can defer—waiting for May, back
when I was winning, winter was colder, summer was warmer. 

Mom and Pop was honored. The block had its performers. 

On the corners, where we were warned and heeded the warnings
we thought that normal living was chilling to see the morning. 

Now we see her mourning in black—how do we act?
Under attack—no tactical unit—choose to react
as reactionary and scary as victims tend to respond. 

Bomb first—storm on horizon—visually calm.

I’m your mutherfucking nightmare. 
And you won’t see my back to put another fucking knife there.
Chuckle if you must, but muster up the guts to set your feet to stand. 
I’ll show you how a boy can be a man. 

Manage to turn me to villain, 
then watch the cops pop me and drop me with little feeling. 

Paint a Sistine with six teens on ceilings
to document our descent to consenting to the killing.

It’s like we’ve seen it all before. 
History repeats. It ain’t unique, and being poor
or being black ain’t never been the thing to be, but even more, 
at least They had the decency to speak and see it as a war.


[2]
And over here they say it’s better—
but Here and Now is There and Then. 
We ain’t escaping terror. 

Nope.

Seems more like we’re inviting it.
Soldiers dying at war without even knowing they fighting it. 
Liken it to the lights going off—if it starts flickering.
You can call it progress. I’ll see it as an epiphany.

I won’t be digging me a grave unless I’m making space for you lay inside it. 
I ain’t lying down. I’m riding. 
I ain’t try’n’a sound defiant, 
but I’m down to join a riot if they try it. 
No trial, no choices. No child, 
no day, should have to fear for his life.
No way this is living. 
No place in this country.
Father forgive us. 
Ought to remember how far we’ve come, and be proud but
we’re reminded every 28 hours."


Letter Home [Produced By Truth]

“[1: A.D. Carson]
Make no mistake, it’s about G’s.
Understand, I don’t give a F, it’s about Ease. 
About Deez...flows I perfected—moment I Seized—
guy that I Be. And y’all ain’t really fucking with me.
It’s A. 
Opportune moment for me to hone it.
Belly full of hunger, ain’t no question do he want it. 
Every second dude is on it, man, he questions every second dude who’s on and
he’s coming up with less than few responses. 
I’m a let you do the nonsense. 
I’m a lecture you to let you to the conscience. 
I’m elected. A selected few I bond with. 
A respected dude who’s honest, 
I’m eclectic, too. I guess it’s due to Momma’s
hectic rules and sketching through them comics
and them metric school responses
that left us to our lessons full of garbage…
that never taught us Huey P or Garvey
and were February sorry…made we wonder are we even hardly
better off than when we started being chartered. 

I’m aiming for the godly—and not asking permission. 

Dues already paid but, no matter, it’s intuition I’m listening to and giving to you
when I’m doing this here. I’m sincere, 
and speak from experience—plenty sins here. 

[Hook]
That’s Truth on the beat, and I speak his name
even when I spit in the streets, you hear what I’m saying, 
but do what you will with it
I’m usually ill with it
and if I’m sick, it won’t even matter, you’ll still get it. 

Plenty time in, and I’m still with it. 
Still feel I’m fresh as a mint, and I still live it. 
Still deciphering ciphers with real lyrics. 
Still feel I rep where I’m from—and that’s Ill nigga.

[2: Truth]
Truth on the beat, so the beat’s gritty. 
Congregation says ‘Amen’ like Meek Milly.
Each and every street, city, 
state, country, who stay hungry, 
motto is ‘make money.’

Genetically, the pedigree is take money. 
Since the Cortés, Columbus ‘nem, they was jumping 
in and out of boats, cutting throats, taking slaves. 
Getting Mondays off for serial killers who paved the way
for the Berkshires and Sam Walton, Warren Buffet. 
Selling shares—ain’t sharing shit when going public. 
Say Lebron rich, Hov wealthy, stitching envy. 
Comparison to the real rich—they pitching pennies. 
[Uh] 
Sipping Henny got me honest. 
Wanna sip it.
Shit’s watered down.
Have it straight, and shit, you vomit. 
So, I pop snares, pluck basses, hitting chronic,
Like, 
“Don’t look at me…somebody gotta tell ‘em.’”

[Hook]
That’s Truth on the beat, and I speak his name
even when I spit in the streets, you hear what I’m saying, 
but do what you will with it
I’m usually ill with it
and if I’m sick, it won’t even matter, you’ll still get it. 

Plenty time in, and I’m still with it. 
Still feel I’m fresh as a mint, and I still live it. 
Still deciphering ciphers with real lyrics. 
Still feel I rep where I’m from—and that’s Ill nigga.”



Truth On The Beat [Produced By Truth] [Featuring Truth]

"[1]
Muthafuckas—say that I’m foolish ‘cause I’m rapping for school. 
Do you fools read my reviews or do you just skim through ‘em? 
I’m influenced by the ghettos I grew in, 
the same dude who paid dues decided to change rules. 
Never been stupid, and won’t assume it of you, but if you
don’t see my picture I ain’t painting for you. 
It’s just music I meant for you to listen to. Don’t confuse it 
with what it’s not. If you can use it, you should use it. If not, 
then do what you do. It ain’t for you to…condemn or condone it.
 I make it, then I say it and I own it. 
Never promoted hate speech. 
I’m more for break beats, but if it takes me
using that to get from there to over here, then I’m a make these work.
You see, I see the folks I teach like a mirror. 
And when I teach me, it’s this type of approach that is clearer. 
So I’m a be me, and stand behind my ‘fuck you’ to critics. 
So if you get it, then you got it and you get it. It’s as simple as that. 

[Hook]
All I do is pass time studying for class rhyme writing. 
Last night it was a different one. Today I’m back like tomorrow’s coming. 
Reading what I’m needing for next time. Teaching, trying to earn my keep. 
Time keep running, so I’m on it. 
And I can only say it how I see it, give it how I get it, speak it how I live it, 
therefore, this thinking of mine you only get sixteen at a time. 

[2]
Since I’m in a position to talk to these kids and they listen
I ain’t an academic, but I’ll kick it with ‘em a minute. 
You see I teach and I rap, and some people call it a gimmick, 
but I never thought it was different. Just got in where I fit, it’s
not rocket science. If I am the most inspired by poems, 
and then I write ‘em. How can I be expected to go on
and live without it. Let alone, never do what I say. 
So take your Sophocles, and I’ll do what you’re doing with Jay. 
But just wait—this ain’t to say that what you’re doing is wrong, 
and I’m right. I’m sure there’s no two people who are alike. 
There’s pedagogical problems, and if I claim I can solve ‘em [and I might], 
who’s to say what I do might do for the night, but then tomorrow, 
the same thing that we saw being done is being done, 
I guess that kind of brings us back to square one. Where to start
is where you are. I say you do what you can. 
If you can’t, then I don’t think you should be teaching. I’m saying, just think about it. 

[Hook]
All I do is pass time studying for class rhyme writing. 
Last night it was a different one. Today I’m back like tomorrow’s coming. 
Reading what I’m needing for next time. Teaching, trying to earn my keep. 
Time keep running, so I’m on it. 
And I can only say it how I see it, give it how I get it, speak it how I live it, 
therefore, this thinking of mine you only get sixteen at a time. 

[3]
See, I’m a poet to some—sometimes I have to teach Shakespeare. 
A teacher debating if what he’s saying relates here
to the moment we’re living in, in America now
is wasting time. I say you put him up against rhymes
of some of the best of the present. Prepare your lectures accordingly, 
then you’re good. It’s not so boring being historically open-minded. 
Hope you find it a better approach. Research. He ain’t the only one who said what he wrote. 
And ain’t no story original. Every one is another. 
So every song that you hear is another lesson discovered. 
Another story uncovered to couple up with the canon, 
and the planning might be a pain. But give it time, understanding 
that’s a process. And there’s a lot less 
that you could do and do worse. And what’s a little bit of change gonna hurt?
Not much. Besides, they say that what we do is the future. 
So, that’s time that’s well invested if it’s reaching your students, right? 

[Hook]
All I do is pass time studying for class rhyme writing. 
Last night it was a different one. Today I’m back like tomorrow’s coming. 
Reading what I’m needing for next time. Teaching, trying to earn my keep. 
Time keep running, so I’m on it. 
And I can only say it how I see it, give it how I get it, speak it how I live it, 
therefore, this thinking of mine you only get sixteen at a time." 



S.A.T. [Part II] [Produced by Preme]

Waiting For [Featuring Bad Dreams] [Produced by Truth]

"[1]
If I could put it in an open letter
and tattoo that on my skin so I won’t forget it, 
I’d probably say something cliché, like “Hope is better.”
Knowing’s never an excuse for not trying to go and get some more. 

And they say we got a lot of nerve
to ask for justice, as if it’s something not deserved. 
When he went to prison it was ‘cause he had a lot to serve. 
Living’s like a game of chicken, and the mission’s not to swerve. 

So you get it how you gotta. Living for today and not tomorrow 
ain’t as hard when you starving. 
I thank my lucky stars to be able to say, 
it’s kind of like a fixed ball game, and you gotta play.

So you won’t catch me judging how he tried to find a way.
To make it from the first to the third ain’t ever safe. 
But winning’s like an inning. The rules of running the base 
is three outs, AKA, KKK [and you’re struck].

[Hook]
Still looking forward to a greater day, 
but I can’t say enough phrases to take the pain away. 
And we still straining through changes and living with dangers. 
As plain as I can say it, I wonder if we will make it. 
I ain’t looking to shake what I’m facing. I’m trying to break it. 
And if there was an easier road, I wouldn’t take it. 

If I was you, I wouldn’t take it. 
But I’m just me, and I won’t take it. 

[2]
If I could tell you how I really feel, 
I’d tell you it’s a real cold world with an infinite chill. 

No need to say what you already know. 
And if you sleeping then the po-po is like NoDōz. 

No indictments, no rights when they violate you; 
repeated disrespect when you asking them why they hate you. 
Land of Brotherhood—if my Brother’s under a hood
and terrorizing me, then my family ain’t all that good. 

And if the hood’s a badge, and my brother’s shooting me down, 
and other family members see others looting the town, 
and blame it on the victim, then we gotta change the system 
for our daughters and our fathers and our mothers and our sisters. 

If I could tell you how I really feel: 
America, here and right now, feels like the Killing Fields,
because we’re fighting for rights, and nobody’s civil still. 
Sometimes it’s hard…believing this is really real. 

[Hook]
Still looking forward to a greater day, 
but I can’t say enough phrases to take the pain away. 
And we still straining through changes and living with dangers. 
As plain as I can say it, I wonder if we will make it. 
I ain’t looking to shake what I’m facing. I’m trying to break it. 
And if there was an easier road, I wouldn’t take it. 

If I was you, I wouldn’t take it. 
But I’m just me, and I won’t take it. 

Still looking forward to a greater day, 
but I can’t say enough phrases to take the pain away. 
And we still straining through changes and living with dangers. 
As plain as I can say it, I wonder if we will make it. 
I ain’t looking to shake what I’m facing. I’m trying to break it. 
And if there was an easier road, I wouldn’t take it. 

If I was you, I wouldn’t take it. 
But I’m just me, and I won’t take it." 


If I Could [Tell You] [Produced by Truth]

Live stream from Ferguson, MO set to music by Preme. 

Ferguson, MO [Music by Preme]

"I happen to believe justice doesn’t look like an execution 
in the middle of a neighborhood street, 
and it doesn’t sound like an attempt to justify that execution 
by trying and convicting that young man of his own murder. 

Justice doesn’t feel like having to repeatedly explain 
why I am angry, 
why I am tired, 
why I deserve consideration as a human being, 
why I deserve to exist, 
why I deserve to thrive, 
why I deserve to live—

why my life matters.  

Justice doesn’t sound like, 
“You, and everyone who is upset right now, are overreacting.” 
because justice isn’t dictated by what a court says or what the court does. 
If that was the case, the resistance to Slave Laws and Black Codes 
and being relegated to backs of buses and segregated lunch counters 
wouldn’t have amounted to much more than just complaining.

So the belief that this moment right now in America is just people complaining 
about an isolated incident that occurred in the Heartland of America 
is not only misplaced and misguided, 
it’s an absolute misunderstanding of what’s going on, 
and a perfect representation of what the problem is—

and there are too many of us who don’t see it, don’t hear it, don’t feel it, 
and therefore don’t believe it exists. 

But our being sick and tired is not enough, 
apparently, 
to convince you that it’s not just us. 

If we are America, and we are sick and tired, 
then that, alone, should tell you that America is sick…
and tired. 

Yet, somehow you’ve been convinced that that’s just us. 
But you can’t convince me that this is justice. 

Just a year ago 
we sat and watched the familiar scene of a public lynching 
excused by a jury of peers. What appears to be a familiar sentiment in America 
is that black boys equal danger, 
black bodies are disposable, 
black life doesn’t matter, 
and whatever you do to any of us doesn’t matter, 
because at the end of the day it’s just us. 

And just ‘cause he was going to college on Monday, 
or she was intoxicated, 
or he had marijuana in his system,
or never had any trouble with the law, 
or was holding a toy gun, 
or sold loose cigarettes before,
or is a PhD student, 
it doesn’t matter…
We are black,
and you’ve showed us our lives—
whatever they may consist of—don’t matter. 

And after a while some of us may even try to convince ourselves that 
we know better, 
and we do better, 
so we are better, 
and let that give us the gumption 
to talk down on those who express that rage and anger 
in ways that make us hang our heads in shame 
and say the same kinds of things about us that have been said over and over—
“That’s not justice.
That’s not us at all.”

And to them, I say this: 
Sometimes it’s easy to see what we were supposed to see when we look back, 

It’s in the moment when it’s most difficult...
we’re too close to it, now, to know it for what it is.  

I imagine many people seeing young Dr. King and his comrades and thinking them troublemakers— 
idealists, wasting time on changing what’s always been 
with no real tangible idea of what might be instead, 
or hearing Malcolm X and believing armed resistance to be a perpetuation of the plague that ails us.

I envision them trying to explain the concept of different 
and it sounding as foreign as explaining a color never seen before by human eyes. 

Imagine what Blue means to the man who’s born blind. 

History tells us chants and songs, coded language meant to inspire change, is just us. 
Boots on streets and sidewalks, arms locked against police dogs, water hoses, cops in riot gear
fanning flames of fires ignited hundreds of years previous, 
breathing in hell, coughing up tear gas, facing masked assailants funded by tax dollars
and fueled on by the thought, the problem is not them, it’s just us. 

We men and women, responding to right now 
with heavy hearts, hurt feelings and hundreds of years of proof 
that this isn’t what justice looks like, sounds like or feels like 

are simply showing, speaking and expressing 
that same want for change
and that all-American desire 
for Liberty, and Justice 
to be for All."