Message To The Bluntman By Danny Hoch ©1994

Forties, Blunts, Ho's. Glocks and Tecs You got your 'X' cap but I got you powerless

Forties, Blunts, Ho's. Glocks and Tecs You got your Tommy Hil but I got you powerless

People be like shut the hell up when I talk
Like I shouldn't be talkin Black, even though I'm from New York

But what's that? A color, a race or a state of mind?
A class of people? A culture, is it a rhyme?

If so, then what the hell am I you might be sayin?
Well see if you could follow this flow, cause I ain't playin

Ya see I ain't ya average 20-something grunge type of slacker
I'm not your herb flavor-of-the-month, I ain't no cracker

An actor? Come on now, you know you wanna ask me
I'll use my skin privileges to flag you down a taxi

But I could act mad type of rough to flex my muscle
I'm also from the seventies so I could do the Hustle

I been to Riker's Island, did crimes that was wrong
Smoked Blunts and drank Forties ‘fore Kriss Kross was born

That's true. But so what. I know I ain't “that” to you
But I can take your culture, supe it up and sell it back to you

And I can sell crack to you and smack to you if you let me I'm the president, the press and your paycheck, you sweat me

You never even met me or can fathom my derision
You try to buck my system, son, I'll lock yo ass in prison

‘Cause that's my mission, profit in my pocket, I clock it
I got billions invested in jails, you can't stop it

I'm political, I laugh at all this anti-Semitical
It makes you look weak, when you try to be critical

And I laugh at all these rap videos with these guns and ho's While you strike the roughneck pose, I pick my nose

And flick it on ya, ya gonner, no need to warn ya
Got mad seats in government from Bronx to California

And I got the National Guard and plus the Navy,
Army, Air Force, son, I got niggers paid to save me

If it ever really gets to that but I doubt it
‘Cause these dollars that I print got your mind clouded

A kid steps on your sneakers and you beef with no hesitation But you never got beef with my legislation or my TV station

This is my game, I can't lose
When I wanna see the score I just turn on my news

And see you got my Glock and my Tec, aimed at your man neck
I got you in check and you still give me respect

Ha. That's real funny Mister Money
Mister Cash Loot Blunts Ho's, Mister Dummy

Mister Car Cellular Phone, Mister Junk
You think you got props, you got jack, you the punk

This revolution lookin like junk, and it sunk
With all the 'X' caps that I sold you out my trunk

You bought my revolution and you wear it on your head
And then you be talkin’ ‘bout, yeah I'ma shoot you dead!

Who you supposed to be scarin, brother?
You ain't scarin me, but you scarin your mother

So keep buyin this fly revolution that I'm sellin
How much Gee's I'll make off you herbs, yo ain't no tellin

Keep buyin my Philly Blunt Shirts and my Hats
Keep buyin my Forties, and keep buyin them Gats

And I'll keep buyin time with the cash that you spend
We could hang out, I'll even call you my friend

And we can watch this televised revolution that you're missin On the commercials that's between Rush Limbaugh and The Simpsons

What's the moral of this limerick that I kicked?
If you missed it, well maybe your head is thick

Or maybe your ass is too high from the Blunts
That's too bad, cause revolution only happens once.

Forties, Blunts, Ho's. Glocks and Tecs, You got your 'X' cap but I got you power ...less

Forties, Blunts, Ho's. Glocks and Tecs,
You got your Tommy Hil and your Lex... but what's next?