If you think about the the fight most Rappers have growing up in inner city's or depressing towns
Now that's the truth, right there. How do you think the Midwest was populated? "Beer Babies" or "Accordion Shame Children" they called them. Thousands of them.No one gives it like a polka groupie...
Yes but Rap is in my opinion more closely linked to Poetry then Polka or Rock.
I also didnt say that they would be left with no other choice however i think the same cross section of young disinfranchised people that he related to then, now listen to Hip Hop for Poetic kicks
And today's hip hop artists are not in that league. Are you telling me that the likes of the douchebag pictured in the first post should be considered on the par with someone like Last Poets? I think a lot of people might disagree with that.The likes of Gil Scott-Heron and The Last Poets crossed over 'back in the day'
The line between rhyming poetry and hip hop may be almost transparent, but that's where any similarity ends.unlike Bill I think the line between poetry and rap is almost transparent.
Post a decent rap lyric that can stand on its own without music. You will find that most lyrics are shit as poems. The same with rock lyrics. They just don;t work. Just because you say that they are poetry does not mean that they are good poetry. The bible is poetry. Rod McKuen is poetry. Dr Seuss is poetry. Henry Rollins is poetry. Shakespeare is poetry.What im saying is that Rap music is a more lyrical and poetic form of expression that does not need any equipment other then a pen. That young people can write and express what they are feeling in a way, more similar to poetry.
Post a decent rap lyric that can stand on its own without music....
Post a brilliant lyric and let us decide. Maybe you can find the absolute best rap lyric ever written and let us honestly look it as a poem.
Post a brilliant lyric and let us decide.
Lucy was 7 and wore a head of blue barettes
City born, into this world with no knowledge and no regrets
Had a piece of yellow chalk with which she'd draw upon the street
The many faces of the various locals that she would meet
There was joshua, age 10
Bully of the block
Who always took her milk money at the morning bus stop
There was Mrs. Crabtree, and her poodle
She always gave a wave and holler on her weekly trip down to the bingo
And she drew
Men, women, kids, sunsets, clouds
And she drew
Skyscrapers, fruit stands, cities, towns
Always said hello to passers-by
They'd ask her why she passed her time
Attachin lines to concrete
But she would only smile
Now all the other children living in or near her building
Ran around like tyrants, soaking up the open fire hydrants
They would say
"Hey little Lucy, wanna come jump double dutch?"
Lucy would pause, look, grin and say
"I'm busy, thank you much"
Well, well, one year passed
And believe it or not
She covered every last inch of the entire sidewalk,
And she stopped-
"Lucy, after all this, you're just giving in today??"
"I'm not giving in, I'm finished," and walked away
1 2 3
That's the speed of the seed
A B C
That's the speed of the need
You can dream a little dream
Or you can live a little dream
I'd rather live it
Cuz dreamers always chase
But never get it
Now Lucy was 37, and introverted somewhat
Basement apartment in the same building she grew up in
She traded in her blue barettes for long locks held up with a clip
Traded in her yellow chalk for charcoal sticks
And she drew
Little bobby who would come to sweep the porch
And she drew
The mailman, delivered everyday at 4
Lucy had very little contact with the folks outside her cubicle day
But she found it suitable, and she liked it that way
She had a man now: Rico, similar, hermit
They would only see each other once or twice a week on purpose
They appreciated space and Rico was an artist too
So they'd connect on saturdays to share the pictures that they drew
Now every month or so, she'd get a knock upon the front door
Just one of the neighbors,
Actin nice, although she was a strange girl, really
Say, "Lucy, wanna join me for some lunch??"
Lucy would smile and say "I'm busy, thank you much"
And they would make a weird face the second the door shut
And run and tell their friends how truly crazy Lucy was
And lucy knew what people thought but didn't care
Cuz while they spread their rumors through the street
She'd paint another masterpiece
Lucy was 87, upon her death bed
At the senior home, where she had previously checked in
Traded in the locks and clips for a head rest
Traded in the charcoal sticks for arthritis, it had to happen
And she drew no more, just sat and watched the dawn
Had a television in the room that she'd never turned on
Lucy pinned up a life worth's of pictures on the wall
And sat and smiled, looked each one over, just to laugh at it all
No Rico, he had passed, 'bout 5 years back
So the visiting hours pulled in a big flock o' nothin
She'd never spoken once throughout the spanning of her life
Until the day she leaned forward, grinned and pulled the nurse aside
And she said:
"Look, I've never had a dream in my life
Because a dream is what you wanna do, but still haven't pursued
I knew what I wanted and did it till it was done
So i've been the dream that I wanted to be since day one!"
The nurse jumped back,
She'd never heard Lucy even talk,
'Specially words like that
She walked over to the door, and pulled it closed behind
Then Lucy blew a kiss to each one of her pictures
And she died.
That's funny, because I could have sworn that hip hop was the most popular form of mainstream music these days.Hip Hop seems to be the Home of Underground writers these days.
well at least you're not judging hip hop by its stereotypes and stuffSure, he would kick it with Slug, and they would roll through some dangerous Minneapolis hoods now and then, throwing water balloons and toilet-papering a rival's crib, but the lure of the sweet, sweet jazz would always call Bukowski back home.
here's the song [This video is unavailable.]he said post a brilliant lyric. jesus, what a waste of time.
ps - 'barettes' don't rhyme with 'regrets' - yanowhamsane?
Fail.lucy was 7 and wore a head of blue barettes
city born, into this world with no knowledge and no regrets
had a piece of yellow chalk with which she'd draw upon the street
the many faces of the various locals that she would meet
there was joshua, age 10
bully of the block
who always took her milk money at the morning bus stop
there was mrs. Crabtree, and her poodle...
Fail.here's the song [This video is unavailable.]