lirik lagu the form – jonny 5 + yak
[hook]
i’m listening to rap cds from the middle of the storm
where the weak ones die and the strong ones mourn
and the fire in which you burn keeps me warm
the final breath of death is the art, the form
is the rap cds from the middle of the storm
far from the place i was born
but i seen it in a p-rn
the producer said he had once burned
and he learned how to fill out the form
[verse 1]
in the middle of the storm
with the winds blowing hard and fast
and the hurricane spin throwing shards of gl-ss
alleycats dump litters and guard trash
feminine skin scr-ped and shredded
women and men raped and beheaded
and taped as they utter their last breath
blood-plastered lips mutter
“f-ck that other b-st-rd”
kiss their mother and praise god with the pastor
race to the death
who’s faster?
who’s faster?
the news casters cruised past so they could video tape
the raped-and-bruised-b-st-rd
spliced him into segments used after advertis-m-nts
and regular fake-confused laughter
i heard of this disaster
but i don’t know about it
but every rapper’s got a flow about it
[hook]
[verse 2]
the producer p-ssed
heard the blood bleeding
turned, the last words so hot he had a cd burned
with a song about the mom and a song about the pastor
and fifteen songs sayin’ “f-ck that other b-st-rd”
remixed and mastered, humanity clipped
tracks blunted so everybody wanted a hit
takin sh-t from the hood, makin’ it taste good
when it played at the club the whole place stood
on their tip-toes
wild like flip mode
calypso
snippet so tight they rip clothes
at the hip hop hard so the cd skips
on an isolated quote from the dead man’s bleeding lips
“b-tchn-ggaf-g, b-tchn-ggaf-g”
onomatopoeia of bl–dy fists and a bag of dollars
rich kids hadn’t cared now holler “producer”
produced a gold six figure tag on his collar
[hook]
[verse 3]
he made ten million dollars out of one soul
won’t stop, can’t stop, spinnin’ outta control
learnin’ how to win a gold and how to flow slow
and in every single video rollin’ in dough
getting baked with the honeys, try to use em up
divin’ into money like scrooge mcduck
frantically movin’ up
suckin’ vodka from bootstraps
standin’ on the back of a bull in a sp-ce suit
trapped k!ller whales out in the pool
sippin’ monkey brains out of the skull
with cinnamon sticks
teletubby suit with the head back grinnin’ and sh-t
yellow belly monitor tracks blazin sinnin’ in six
figures, relaxin’ days in linen laced limos
bigger, addin’ switches swimmin in liquor
puff cigarette drags and disses, callin’ everybody
“blacks,” and “g-ys,” and “women”
this is rags to riches, bread crumbs to cream
from wanted ads to ads for burrito supreme
stocks, bonds, and charity teams
millionaire cleans doubt out by sharin’ the green
but he’s openly declarin’ his scheme
tough, arrogant, mean
time to time tries to teach what farrakhan means
i was starin at the barren scene there on the screen
and he yelled out “i am the american dream”
[hook]
(cut! this is all wrong. this is art, not exploitation. alright, let’s do it again from the top.)
…
everybody rock
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