Yo, is this Mic on? I ain't playin man. Not at all. This microphone must die brah. Forget the microphone man. I'm setting this whole, damn room to blaze.
Because...I AIN'T PLAYIN MAN!
I ain't the best, put me to the test
if it comes to that,
I've been spyttin from my molars
since Espanola thought the world was flat,
no breath, no rest, let no time elapse,
my black, don't lack, when I slap this word and that,
my synapse snaps, I eat verbs like they Sugar Smacks,
mishaps, don't distract, one track mind when I rap
until I hear you clap
I D'ee be a major Domo,
no need to promo, I've been bad since I was on the Phongolo
swappin battle tactics with Shaka Zulu,
take my assegai, close my eyes,
still it will go right through you,
yo, that's a throwing spear that I used in the Boer War years, nah mean?
No mildew on my mayhem, Amen,
Matthew's gospel is my longview,
Mark, Luke and John, the Torah, the Koran,
once God is with me, no man can be against me,
what are you gonna do?
I've been a lyrical genius
since the doctor said to my momma, "Keep pushing,he's a boy,
I see a penis"
I went to Zeus, with the proof, of my abliity to raise roofs,
he let me sleep with Venus,
Serena got jealous so I had to complete the Grand Slam,
so here's the plan,
I'm gonna get diverse, when I converse and disperse dynamics
from my diaphram
I AIN'T PLAYIN MAN! NOT AT ALL!
I've been a warrior since Nandi lent me Shaka's Sword,
initiated into the ibutho lempi, African war spirit I absorbed,
the records, of my rewards are so vast you can cross a fjord,
with just my old rhymes,
yeah, I hear the peeps shouting, "D'ee slam the Spoken Word
one more time!"
I'm a Prime Time, Fine Azz, Black Mind from the Caribbean clime,
when I feel inclined, I intertwine word wisdom and witticisms,
mix it, and give an epidural to my hater's spines
Perfected my style on the 5-8 and Ell-Dub,
was down for the RED, BLACK AND GREEN
but fake brotha's let Beelzebub
kill the Revolution with slugs,
I forget how many dead homeys I gave a Bro Hug,
Go back and react when I see my O.G's hooked on drugs,
usta make mix tapes with my lyrics fanned out on my momma's rug,
preset the 808, take a break, cogitate, then bust a grub,
thickset Terri usta come over, baby powdered down, freshly scrubbed,
ask if I was home, MAMMA NOOO!!!
my moms would laugh and shrug,
regrets, yeah I have a few, but I prayed over the Old D'ee, took a pee
then pulled the plug
Yo, I started getting worried when I saw the Zulu
repsonding to slave pressures from Mozambique,
my interest was piqued,
YO SHAKA, IGNORE THEM, I have a report
from the Spirit of Khufu at Giza,
some white dude gonna take over and rename Mozambique, "RHODESIA"
send a priest to fleece ya,
a missionary to grease ya,
I don't wanna grieve ya,
listen to the flow from the poet, D.GREAVES ya
I AIN'T PLAYIN MAN! NOT AT ALL!
Damn! Shaka didn't listen and allowed European incursion,
history is told by those who achieve victory,
you can only read HIS version,
I shake my head and go to the Sacred waters for immersion,
not a conversion, but an exertion of my pro-Asiatic assertions,
I saw with aversion, the dispersion,
the perversion, the subversion, of every African person,
it didn't get better, it worsened,
but it wasn't all the white man, it was also sub-Saharan coercion
Yeah, I learned to freestyle over break beats
from the Godfather, James Brown and Dennis Coffey,
I had 7 books in my backpack munchin on a vanilla cone
with sprinkles from Mr.Softee,
had bile in my stomach from too many malt likka sprees,
still, I smile and stroke my goatee, when I recall the memory,
of intersecting at conjunctions, making verbs and nouns fit snugly,
WILD STYLE AND BEAT STREET, were the double feature
at the movie,
can't you see a little D'ee, tapping his shell toes,
mentally inventing new rap similes
Closed my eyes and I could see the Afrikaans having the Zulu
in a kraal,
the Portugese called it a curral,
the Americans called it a corral,
penned like livestock, because the Original forgot,
He and she were the FIRST and foremost host of the Creator,
now, even the African-Americans are like grids on an iron
getting trampled by Oakland Raiders,
get a calculator, how many invaders
killed at will and forced neighbor to kill neighbor
I AIN'T PLAYIN! NOT AT ALL!
FROM KNEE-LOW
TO NEGRO,
AFRO SHEEN AND AFROS,
EVERY BROTHER AINT A BRO,
SOME ARE BLACK CROWS,
SPREADING GOSSIP TOO AND FRO,
WHO SHOT YA?
MAN. WHO KNOWS,
COULD BE THE CATS WHO BLASTED MALCOLM
FROM THE 3RD ROW,
BULLETS OVER BROADWAY, THE SKY DAY GLOW,
WITH TRACERS,
BLACK MAN ERASERS,
TAZERS,
"X" MARKS THE SPOT WITH A RED LASER,
DAMN. I HATE SLAVERS,
YO, DO ME A FAVOR,
LEND ME A RAZOR,
SO I CAN SLIT MY WRISTS,
I WOULD RATHER DIE STILL RAISING MY BLACK FIST,
SHOUTING "POWER TO THE PEOPLE"
UNTIL I CAN'T RESIST...DEATH
Yeah, BLAZE IN THE ROOM,
mic: gone
stage: gone
roof: GONE!
THE ZULU, TOLD Y'ALL I WASN'T PLAYIN MAN!
peace..I'm out.
All Poetry by D.Greaves/Darwin Greaves by D.Greaves-Darwin Greaves is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at dgreaves.posterous.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://dgreaves.posterous.com/pages/dgreaves-tos