Firas Durri

Sometimes I almost believe that talented artists tap into something ‘else’ in the ether that they get to channel to the rest of us.

Nas, One Love (1994) [youtube link]

So I comes back home, nobody’s out but shorty doo-wop
Rolling two phillies together, in the Bridge we called ‘em oowops
He said, “Nas, niggas could be busting off the roof
So I wear a bullet proof and pack a black tres-deuce”

He inhaled so deep, shut his eyes like he was sleep
Started coughing one eye peeked to watch me speak
I sat back like the mack, my army suit was black
We was chilling on these benches where he pumped his loose cracks

I took an L when he passed it, this little bastard
Keeps me blasted he starts talking mad shit
I had to school him, told him don’t let niggas fool him
Cause when the pistol blow the ones that’s murdered be the cool one

Tough luck when niggas are struck, families fucked up
Could’ve cought your man, but didn’t look when you bucked up
Mistakes happen, so take heed never bust up
At the crowd catch him solo, make the right man bleed

Shorty’s laugh was cold blooded as he spoke so foul
Only twelve trying to tell me that he liked my style
Then I rose, wiping the blunts ash from my clothes
Then froze only to blow the herb smoke through my nose

And told my little man that I’m a go cyprose
Left some jewels in the skull that he can sell if he chose
Words of wisdom from Nas, try to rise up above
Keep an eye out for Jake shorty wop
One Love

Queens Get the Money: youtube link.

Pregnant teens give birth to intelligent gangsters — their daddy’s faceless
Play this by your stomach, let my words massage it and rub it
I’ll be his daddy if there’s nobody there to love it
Tell him his name’s Nasir, tell him how he got here
Mama was just having fun with someone above her years

Hip-hop was aborted
So Nas breathes life, back into the embryo

You aint as hot as I is
All of these fake prophets are not messiahs
You don’t know how high the sky is
The square mileage of Earth, or what pi is

I’m the shaky hand that touched Geoge Foreman in Zaire
The same hand that punched down devils that brought down the towers

N.I.G.G.E.R. (The Slave and the Master): youtube link

We trust no black leaders, use the stove to heat us
Powdered eggs and government cheeses
The calendars with Martin, JFK and Jesus
Gotta be fresh to go to school with fly sneakers

Schools with outdated books, we are the forgotten
Summers, cooling off by the fire hydrant
Yeah I’m from the ghetto
Where old black women talk about their sugar level

It’s not unusual
To see photos of dead homie’s funerals
Aluminium foil on TV antennas
Little TV sit on top the big TV, eating TV dinners

Girls dye their hair with Kool-Aid
They gave us lemons, we made lemonade…

Nas & Gil Scott-Heron, New York Is Killing Me: youtube link.

Nas:
Village Voices I heard around Strivers’ Row
Next to where Calloway once sang, ‘Heide Ho’
Welcome to the side-show where many eyes are low
Posted up Daily News travel round by the low

Gil Scott-Heron:
Fast city living ain’t all it’s cracked up to be
Yes seem I need to go home and slow down in Jackson, Tennessee

Nas:
And the gangs in New York are like wolves in sheep clothing
Navy men off the ships in sidewalks strolling
Ladies watching shopping stressing hard
With maxed out credit cards and her depressing job

Grey skies, winter’s cold
US Open Tennis, charity dinners for the rich and old
Giving nothing to the poor to strengthen their soul
I can see why some get up and go, and move where it’s slow

Gil Scott-Heron:
Lord have mercy, have mercy on me
Till him to bury my body back home in Jackson, Tennessee

It Ain’t Hard to Tell (10th Anniversary Remix): youtube link.

What’s a beat if the rap don’t click
I spit rhymes like I’m sick, dying loss in a pit
The only way I can escape is by vocals
Verbalize a strife
Stabbin’ ears like a knife hood like
The Prophet of the gutter
Lyrics are silk mega butter
I flow never stutter
Clever poetic brothers on a mission
Dissin’ all who perps the fraud
Scrams listen, (and) do what the experts record
Burn your pen and pads, mics you’ll need not
Well I be packin’ like a rasta in a weed spot
Hittin’ your hearts like a hollow tip
Verbally illin’ minds manipulated
My raps a nickel-plated
I illustrate it, X-rated, then move out
Nas the parlayer takes you on a new route
It’s suicide poetry released from a cell
With immense clientele, I excel
It ain’t hard to tell