A D the Great Carson

opie

Thrillz 2014 Summer Mix

samcro

kingsteve

[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

[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

"[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]

"[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]

“[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]

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: 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]

Les Luger & Tj Byrd N Tatted Lee - GrownShit

"Malcolm said that the media held the power, so he worked on his diction to make the massa fear and cower" ~ Freddy P

There are too many of us who don't see it don't hear it, don't feel it and therefor don't believe it exists" ~A.D. Carson 

Good Ol' Days (Prod. By Dee Aye) Ft. A.D. Carson

Amsterdam Bars

Never Comin' Down Prod. By JunioR Beatz

Kickin' It Ft. Ty Witty Prod. By JunioR Beatz

Winds Prod. By JunioR Beatz

Pot Of Gold

24 OF THE BEST ARTISTS IN CENTRAL, IL ALL ON 1 ALBUM HOSTED BY 217's WORKHORSE, UNCANNY, AND MIXED BY THE #1 DJ IN THE MIDWEST, DNY!!!!!!!

04 - A.D. Carson - Familiar

"Gossip" - Big Boi (feat. UGK & Big K.R.I.T.)
Produced By Big K.R.I.T.
Vicious Lies And Dangerous Rumors - The Album Drops November 13th

Gossip

Gossip (feat. UGK & Big K.R.I.T.)

Available on iTunes

"[Hook]
I am not a rapper, 
‘cause rap is just talk.
All talk is cheap, 
so these are just thoughts. 

Take them as they are—
no more than just words, 
and taking them for any more 
than that would be absurd.

But listen up, man, I’m not a rapper. 

I’m not a rapper. 

‘t may sound like it, but, I’m not a rapper.

Nope, I’m not a rapper. 

[1]
It’s just talk—no gimmicks, if I ain’t ‘bout to win it,
then it’s a lost cause. I’m standin’ at the finish,
watchin’ y’all race, and playin’ tomato pace/paste and
callin’ it ketchup. I am what’s left of
a dyin’ breed, try’n’a breathe while in hell,
and stay sober while niggas that be on X sell.

And they swear that they be fly, but I’m pilotin’ rocket ships
and I don’t see ‘em. They be high, but they lyin’ to you and yours.
My crew and me—troubadours; we truthfully, through and through,
be oratorically bored by boys playin’ a man’s game.
The same thing I said before:
I said it before, they settlin’ for the metaphors that they can sell in the store.

The people that wanted to get it the way that they live it, the lyrics that’s tellin’ 
the lives that they livin’—ain’t really that diff’rent than what we are spittin, are people I write for.

I recite for the ones that’s barely makin’ it, 
livin’ check to check, but never neglectin’ that his babies need ‘im.


[Hook]
I am not a rapper, 
‘cause rap is just talk.

All talk is cheap, 
and these are just thoughts. 

Take them as they are—
no more than just words, 
and taking them for any more 
than that would be absurd.

So listen up, man, I’m not a rapper. 

Nope, I’m not a rapper. 

It may sound like it, but, nope, I’m not a rapper.

Naw, I’m not a rapper. 

[2]
I know the babies need diapers; his lady needs nicer than current circumstances.
I may be just nice enough to inspire the further plannin’.

It’s just talk. Pardon my message.
But they’re like children with Barbies, they wanna dress it.
So, it’s a letter that won’t ever be mailed. Philosophy 
like, “Why try when you inevitably fail?”

So when I say that, “I’m good.”
It means that I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you, and I say what you should,
but you don’t. And I don’t blame you for just tryin’ to sell,
but watch out—you’ll be an addict if you buy it as well. 

I don’t blame you for just tryin’ to sell, 
but look out—you’ll be an addict if you buy it as well. 

Nino Brown [portrayed by Wesley Snipes in New Jack City]: 
“I’m not guilty. You’re the one who’s guilty—lawmakers, the politicians, the Colombian drug lords—all you who lobby against making drugs legal…”

[Hook]
I am not a rapper, 
‘cause rap is just talk.
All talk is cheap, 
so these are just thoughts. 

Take them as they are—
no more than just words, 
and taking them for any more 
than that would be absurd.

So listen up, man, I’m not a rapper. 

Nope, I’m not a rapper. 

So tell the children, “Nope, I’m not a rapper.”

Naw, I’m not a rapper. 


[3]
Look, it’s just talk. The people never state. 
There’s so little to give, so everybody takes. 
Bloodsuckers blood lusting, so we raise the stakes. 
Try to bring ‘em down. It’s much harder to break
the expectation of doing nothin’ than it is to break a heart. 
Kids raise kids, not knowing where to start.

Ignition—he’s doing a bid, wishing 
he did listen and did this different. 
He just slipped through the cracks. 

The crack addict ain’t mad at the bad habit, 
just waitin’ to get right back at it. 
It ain’t tragic—it’s true. 
Who knew that this dude would abuse booze 
and would lose?

Who chooses the bruises over the pain?

And who proves that he’s doin’ anything less than his best
when his next effort is gettin’ out of the rain, 
‘cause gettin’ off of that bottle means tunin’ into the world, 
and the world is just so cold
that we freezin’ in mid-June.

[Hook]
I am not a rapper, 
‘cause rap is just talk.
And all talk is cheap, 
so these are just thoughts. 

Take them as they are—
no more than just words, 
and taking them for any more 
than that would be absurd.

So listen up, man, I’m not a rapper. 

Nope, I’m not a rapper. 
I just be thinkin’.

I’m not a rapper.
and talking.
I’m not a rapper. 

I am not a rapper, 
‘cause rap is just talk.
And all talk is cheap.
These are just thoughts. 

Take them as they are—
no more than just words, 
and taking them for any more 
than that would be absurd.

…"




This Is Not A Rap Song [Unfinished]

Dj Screw / UGK - One Day

CyHi The Prynce - "Whoa"

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.”



The MANual

Dedication Ft. UnCanny Prod. By JunioR Beatz

Banger off of Genuine Draft shout out to AO !!!