Crowbar Method

I'm sittin on a subway, burnin through street veins

Tryina get to heaven on a Bronx bound C-Train

Taxi horn symphony blowin through steel frames

Aimin at my thoughts, just needed to feel the pain

And the kids in the boogie down that gave her a name

And made a culture out of ghetto American street slang

Hand to a record crate, stylist to the break beat

Power to a freeze, put your shoulder to the eighth street

Concrete, cardboard, skully to a dewrag

Passion of a few becomes the crowds new bag

Practicing cool tags on the trapper keeper notepad

Imitatin rap, was eager to know the half

I wore high top nikes and sweat suits with pockets

All the other kids were rockin reeboks

Tube socks pulled to the knees and wrist bands

I didnt own a pair of jeans til I was nearly a man

I watched the effortless be pointed to the cleverest jams

Wore my pair of checkered vans, whatever the off brand

And never could quite dance, I bought a Japanese hoodie

To reduce the friction between dreams of getting good

On a broken down box, in a second grade classroom

Hopin not to stumble while walkin on Jacks moon

Middle-class ghetto blaster took me upstate

While my moms makin New York City Breakin dub tapes

Chorus:

B-boys do it for those without hunger

Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder

MCs speak for the culturally weak

And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat

B-boys do it for those without hunger

Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder

MCs speak for the culturally weak

And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat

Don't force it, don't fake it

Please borrow it, but don't take it

Don't force it, don't fake it

You can borrow it, but don't break it

Born again when I pass through turnstile womb

And smell the underground garden where the wildstyle bloom

Breathe the body odor sweatin from this concrete tomb

Excrete the body rock street perfume

Lick the water from the asphalt, dyin of thirst

Scorchin hot blacktop, streetball first

Skip to my lou behind the chain link fence

I finally caught a view, aint been the same kid since

Thought I saw myself in a black kid once

But, then I realized life for me is packaged lunch

Three course dinin catered on fine china

While my African-American friends eat Aunt Jemima

And they started this champ, set it to broken rhyming

Spit old-school, to double-time

Spoken work, climbin out the gutter

Kicked one word utterance at a time

But all the while, our kids dont play on sidelines

Didn't want to write this, hard to admit love

For a people and a culture you can never be a part of

Cant change who I am, or who I was

Where Im from, or that Im likely to catch a buzz

Off of Zev.Love.X, Funkmaster Flex

Still get chills from mixtape casettes

Youre my struggle, my car, my hunger, my loaded gun

Youre my Alabama summer, when I needed to overcome

Youre my 20 years to life, my black on black crime

Youre my Wake Up Show, when I needed to know the time

Youre my billy club beat down, broomstick shower

My nation of millions, when I needed to fight the power

Chorus:

B-boys do it for those without hunger

Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder

MCs speak for the culturally weak

And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat

B-boys do it for those without hunger

Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder

MC's speak for the culturally weak

And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat

Don't force it, don't fake it

Please borrow it, but don't take it

Don't force it, don't fake it

You can borrow it, but don't break it

"Raps are smoke signals, lettin the streets know Im with em"

"How many dead folks, this art resurrected?"