Far Out
Let me rap to you about where I'm from.
Sidewalks are broken, weeds grow through the cracks.
The people that use them are like the sidewalks,
broken and bummed out.
They have handles like Turkey, Louie the Bum, Sand man.
No one's hip to their real names.
They all think they're righteous.
Me, they call me Kid, so don't be freaking out,
no one cares, it is what it is.
All we care about is the hustle.
The next minute, then the minute after.
So it goes.
This, is my school, I'm hip to it.
In these alleys, on these sidewalks,
where no one can tell if the garbage man came,
where rainbows are neon, books are painted words,
scrawled on concrete walls.
It's where you can get sliced for a joint,
and die for seeing what you shouldn't.
It's cool, don't sweat it.
It's another realm man, so don't flip your wig.
No manicured grass here, only advertisements for whiskey.
Are you hip to it, what I'm laying down.
Listen up my brother, cause I'll be bookin.
In this place, pain is a commodity,
sold by dealers and pimps.
Can you dig it.
I gotta split man, before the fuzz comes.
So hang loose, I gotta drop a dime,
to my connection.
Maybe I'll catch you on the flip side.
1960's slang
contest..Talk the Talk and Walk the Walk
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