Your Son, Joe / The Beat - Now Like Then

I probably shouldn't be here, but papa done packed them in
I saw that man behind the beard, god dammit I looked like him
The hands, the fucking swagger
The dagger, the laugh and grin
Half hammered, half enamored, I stagger to pack
In the past I passed judgement, like pastors amassing sins
Masochistic way to revisit how sadness happens to kids
I made a wish within a recorder, and sorted, listening in
I built a list, here's the order of my list that it's in
It goes, 38, Ransom, Crooked, and Benny
Conway from Upstate, Joell and Royce, Grafh, and Em
Rome Streetz, Da Cloth and Che, yes, they is all ascending
And Fred the Godson, you're with God, son, in the hearts of many
And though I'm not upon the list, I rocks it steady
From CNY, to Colorado, to Wisconsin Cheddi
The Beat is I and I am him, like a doppel heady
Ready or not, I bring it hotter than some mom's spaghetti
You know me from the crow's feet and the flows beginning
When I was supposed to be sitting closely, playing ring around the rosie
Instead, engrossed and thus composing, like I stole some Addy
Straight up the nose, and juxtapose it with some Stroh's and Natty
Ice is rather shiny, but it's not for the Hyphen
To keep it nice, I pop some Pliny with the top of a knife
And to stop from eating beans and rice, I roll from top of the dome
And I hope the dome alone will hold it till I drive it on home
And then rehearing and rehearsing, top and bottom of verses
I want this shit to fucking hurt you like I'm dropping on Verzuz
With Swizz and Timbaland bewildered when I'm spitting and fitting
To bring it vicious like I'm Jada, but I'm straight out of Clinton
I must be made out of mittens, they way I'm knitting this vision with stunning wit and precision
Tighter than Kelce and Witten double dipping their dicks indifferent
I'm a lover, not a fighter, so dipping in is a given, isn't it?
Isn't it funny how good for nothings are good for something?
Ain't it funny how Trump be puffing, till a summons coming?
Ain't it funny how winter's coming, but summer's bloody?
Ain't it funny, fuck ain't it funny, fuck ain't it funny?
And ain't if funny how people chatter when they can't stand ya?
Mix of Tony Soprano, and yep, Jesse, Costanza
If this flow is endangered, you can call me a panther
And goddamn right, I'm a dirty dancer
Sir, what's your intention, and what's your stated purpose?
What's your dimensions, and what's your state of purchase?
Media attention made this a gated circus
Escalate contention by times of ten you just made it worse
You motherfucking pussy, I'll never call you a killer
You're a murderer, enabled by racists who're making pillows
And if race didn't play a factor in seven in Jacob's back
How then did Kyle walk away without facing the same reactions?
If a fraction of you fascists removed your faces from Facebook
The reactions you'd be having would be happening on your face, look
Attention grab happened without some bass, hook, or label
I'm at your family's table like basic cable
Unchained from the fucking stable, my fist through the fucking wall
And I'm pissed 'cause you motherfuckers ain't listening to me at all
I been spitting since I was ten, and it's fitting, 'cause now like then
I've been written off 'cause this Clinton kid's pigment's just not like "them"
"Oh, he thinks he's Eminem and he's clever, but that ain't really dope"
I'm tying every line up together, "But that ain't really dope"
Defying every dirty eye over the thirty I've been setting fire to this wording and burning up mics
So I might take this moment to dispose of personas
So as to expose these fucking posers and show them the door
This Beat that you be seeing, this human being
It's I, myself, and me, and with the key in, I goes it alone

Written by:
Jesse Brookstein

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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