My daughter is so obsessed with this rapper that just died recently. He didn’t talk to her. He wasn’t a part of her life. I had never heard her talk about him before. But when he died she went ballistic. How is she so upset about a man that had no real connection to her? I’m stumped and don’t want to be an ass to her about it but…
i eat candy daily and in large doses, the rappers give me a sensation like a bag of coke to a fiend. a world without this drug of choice would be no world for me to live in. i need help but cant obtain it
She heard it again, three times. But she thought it was only the wind. The last time, the rapper had been sounded, her grandmother had died. But she did not want to be superstitious. So she just amounted it to the wind. She looked out of the window, no twig on the trees moved.
Kendrick Lamar, of course, is my favorite rapper, though Ab-Soul is criminally overlooked. You asked me to give you recommendations and I did, and you liked exactly what I didn’t like. I wonder why you asked me in the first place. I wonder whether this will continue.
The words came in a deluge of high tones, deep baritones between stanzas:
A gon’round, a leavened knell of
Them in knee-highs and whispered tells
Thumbs forward, in some limbic resonance
Un momento, afore an edge on Vladimir the One n’All
Rapper i don’t wanna go up on the stage, wanna stay in the balcony eating canopies in the dandelions gotta a million smiles eat the files go for miles jillian jiles got you riled up piled up, gonna get you smiled up all the times up
He lights a cigarette, takes his place in line. The lyrics are written across his wrist, almost like an old tattoo, resurrecting, except perspiration is scrambling his vowels and there’s no time left for rearranging words. His story is his song and he’s not sure if this is the way entertaining is done but this club is a cash and he wants to check himself before the night runs out.
Tell me why you want to try to be a rapper. Tell me what kind of beats you’ll mix. Tell me how you’re going to build your fanbase. Tell me all of your tips and tricks. I’ve never heard you utter a syllable. Is the only way you can do it? You stand on the stage and verbally rage and froth at the mouth like there’s nothing to it.
Tell me why you want to try to be a rapper. Is it your last attempt at communication?
My daughter is so obsessed with this rapper that just died recently. He didn’t talk to her. He wasn’t a part of her life. I had never heard her talk about him before. But when he died she went ballistic. How is she so upset about a man that had no real connection to her? I’m stumped and don’t want to be an ass to her about it but…
i eat candy daily and in large doses, the rappers give me a sensation like a bag of coke to a fiend. a world without this drug of choice would be no world for me to live in. i need help but cant obtain it
we see this kind of singer that you have to speak quicly and you have to find the same rhyme for all the last words;
but in reality the rapper is the person who gives us the meaning of the life as we had it..
She heard it again, three times. But she thought it was only the wind. The last time, the rapper had been sounded, her grandmother had died. But she did not want to be superstitious. So she just amounted it to the wind. She looked out of the window, no twig on the trees moved.
Kendrick Lamar, of course, is my favorite rapper, though Ab-Soul is criminally overlooked. You asked me to give you recommendations and I did, and you liked exactly what I didn’t like. I wonder why you asked me in the first place. I wonder whether this will continue.
The words came in a deluge of high tones, deep baritones between stanzas:
A gon’round, a leavened knell of
Them in knee-highs and whispered tells
Thumbs forward, in some limbic resonance
Un momento, afore an edge on Vladimir the One n’All
Rapper i don’t wanna go up on the stage, wanna stay in the balcony eating canopies in the dandelions gotta a million smiles eat the files go for miles jillian jiles got you riled up piled up, gonna get you smiled up all the times up
He lights a cigarette, takes his place in line. The lyrics are written across his wrist, almost like an old tattoo, resurrecting, except perspiration is scrambling his vowels and there’s no time left for rearranging words. His story is his song and he’s not sure if this is the way entertaining is done but this club is a cash and he wants to check himself before the night runs out.
Tell me why you want to try to be a rapper. Tell me what kind of beats you’ll mix. Tell me how you’re going to build your fanbase. Tell me all of your tips and tricks. I’ve never heard you utter a syllable. Is the only way you can do it? You stand on the stage and verbally rage and froth at the mouth like there’s nothing to it.
Tell me why you want to try to be a rapper. Is it your last attempt at communication?