squirmed my way through the aisle and sat down next to a rough-looking man
shiny things on his hands, and a New York hat on his head
I could see he believed in hip-hop, but I wondered what that meant to him
as the bus pulled off I turned to him and said:
please excuse all this plastic spit
that’s dripping and shooting off my spastic lip
I realise it’s getting quite drastic, sh…
but come on, this is the fantastic bit
that right now every rhyme’s a classic fit
flexible, like playing with elastic wit
what? me? I’ve never been on a sarcastic tip
just you try and grab this pen from my emphatic grip
it’s almost impossible, like the ink is in my veins
and the words that form inside me become breath that sustains
and I really can’t stop rhyming, it’s like I was born to do it
and yes, “I am the greatest, my middle name is Music…”
whatever, man, that one-way road is jammed full
of emcees who really believe that the world is for one man, who
just happens to be every single emcee
that ever held a mic and thought it was his CV
I’d rather stay home and watch TV, it’s a lot more educational
than the same brain-dead spitters battling all confrontational
no expansive vocabulary, just some predictable dissing
and when you get home from the club, you realise something’s missing
you were listening hard all night, but you can’t remember one rhyme
the sound guy must have got it wrong, he does it all the time
you know what I mean, don’t you? it’s not like every night sucks
but just too often you find yourself wondering why it was thirty bucks
and the culture that surrounds you has almost forgotten about the music
that started this in the first place, now it’s just sex and image
hang out with little girls who proudly claim to love hip-hop
when you question them any further they recite from “drop it like it’s hot”
and you realise that it’s rotting but what are you supposed to do?
the thought police might come and arrest you and ask questions about your crew
that’s writing their own tracks! that’s completely unheard of…
by the way, my name is ajax, and this is where I get off…
tell me, which “Father” do you pray to when you ask “where is the love?”
are you referring to the next track about the hookers in your club?
now every rapper’s got a prayer on his album to make women think he’s tough
shut up, just shut up, shut up…no, really, just shut up.
do you see God shouting out mixed messages of promiscuity and faithfulness?
or is the halo around your angel of light as bright as the one around satan is?
somebody said: “hip hop is a gun,
killing alla y’all for the price of one…”
I said: “it doesn’t have to be death, sometimes it’s life.”
I asked him if he got kids and how he treats his wife
he said: “it’s hard man, I’m a chauvinist, I hate them.”
and so the first minute was the end of the conversation.
I know what he mean though, cos women can be heartless
but men can be pigs when they’re supposed to be fathers
and if his gun was for murder, I hope he never holds a mic
cos it’s so good to end a show when the stars come out at night
and to be able to see them is a still a gift of freedom
that the hip hop in me keeps aflame as a reason
to suffer in silence and voice my heart before God alone
and to fight for every people cos this planet’s not our home
so point hip hop at darkness if it happens to be your gun, too
your bullet holes will join mine as we shine and let the sun through…
ajax vs. byron's angel, 2005
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