(Qué injusto es Dios)


Uno de mis poemas favoritos es "Sestina: Altaforte", de Ezra Pound. No creo que muchos se escandalicen si digo que la canción "Hit 'Em Up" de Tupac Shakur (tal vez la mejor canción de provocación o dissing song de todos los tiempos) me gusta por las mismas razones por las cuales me gusta el poema de su compatriota Pound: Ambas son muestra de un desfile de versos contundentes, agresivos y llenos de inexplicable y divertida testosterona.

Les dejo el vídeo de Tupac y la letra para que canten con él.

I ain't got no muthafuckin' friends, that's why I fucked your bitch,
you fat mutha-fucka.

(Take Money)
West Side, Bad Boy Killers.
(Take Money)
You know who the realist is, niggas we bring it to.
(Take Money)
Ha ha, that's right.

First off, fuck your bitch and the click you claim,
West Side, when we ride come equipped with game.
You claim to be a playa, but I fucked your wife,
We bust on Bad Boys niggas, fuck for life.
Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak,
Hearts I rip,
Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia is some mark ass bitches.
We keep on coming while we running for yah jewels,
Steady gunning keep on busting at them fools,
You know the rules.
Little Ceasar go ask you homie how i'll leave yah
cut your young ass up,

See yah in pieces,
Now be deceased.
Little Kim, don't fuck around with real G's
Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets,
So, fuck peace!
I'll let them niggas know it's on for life,
Don't let the West Side ride the night, ha ha.
Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill,
fuck with me and get your caps peeled,
You know, see,

Grab your glocks when you see 2pac,
Call the cops when you see 2pac, Uhh.
Who shot me, but you punks didn't finish,
Now, you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace,
nigga, I hit 'em up!

Check this out: You mutha-fuckas know what time it is? I don't know why I'm even on this track. Y'all niggas ain't even on my level; I'm going to let my little homies ride on yah bitch-made ass, Bad Boys bitches!
(Ahh yo, yo, hold the fuck up!)

Get out the way yo, get out the way yo,
Biggie Smalls just got dropped!
Little Mu, pass the mac
And let me hit 'em in his back,
Frank White needs to get spanked right for settin' traps.
Little accident murderers and I ain't never heard of yah,
Poise less gats attack when I'm serving yah.
Spank the shank, your whole style when I gank,
Guard your rank cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang.
Puffy weaker than a fuckin' block I'm running through, nigga,
And I'm smoking Junior Mafia in front of you, nigga,
With the ready power tucked in my Guess under my Eddie Bower.
Your clout petty sour I push packages ever hour,
I hit 'em up!

Grab your glocks when you see 2pac,
Call the cops when you see 2pac, Uhh.
Who shot me, but you punks didn't finish,
Now, you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace,
nigga, I hit 'em up!

Peep how we do it keep it real
Its penitentiary steel
This ain't no freestyle battle
All you niggas getting killed With your mouths open
Tryin' to come up off of me You and the clouds hoping
Smoking dope It's like a Shermine niggas think they learned to fly
But they burn mutha-fucka you deserve to die
Talking 'bout you Getting Money But its funny to me
All you niggas living bummy While you fucking with me?

I'm a self made Millionaire!
Thug livin', out of prison pistols in the Air! (Air), Ha Ha!
Biggie remember when I use to let you sleep on the couch
And beg the bitch to let you sleep in the house

Now its all about Versace
You copied my style
Five shots couldn't drop me
I took it and smiled
Now I'm back to set the record straight
With my A-K, I'm still the thug that you love to hate
Mutha-fucka, I'll Hit 'Em Up

I'm from N. E. W. J.erz,
Where plenty of murder occurs,
No points, no commas, we bring drama to all you herds.
Now go check the scenario,
Little Ceas', I'll bring your fake G's to yah knees
copin' pleas a Degenario.

Little Kim, is yah coked up or doped up?

Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up.
What the fuck? Is you stupid?
I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my click looting, shooting, and polluting your block
With fifteen shot, cocked glock to your knot,
Outlaw Mafia click moving up another notch
And your Pop stars popped and get mopped and dropped,
And all your fake-ass East Coast props brainstormed and locked.

You'se a B-writer,
A Pac style taker,
I'll tell you to face, you ain't shit but a faker
As soft as Alizé with a chaser
'bout to get murdered for the paper.
E.D.I. Mean approach the scene of the caper
Like a loc,
with little Ceas' in a choke, huh, toting smoke,
We ain't no mutha-fuckin' joke, Thug Life, niggas, better be known
Be approaching
In the wide open, gun smoking,
No need for hoping: It's a battle lost,
I got 'em crossed as soon as the funk is bopping off,
Nigga, I hit 'em up!

Now, you tell me who won:
I see them, they run, ha ha!
They don't wanna see us,
Whole Junior Mafia click dressing up to be us,
How the fuck they gonna be the Mob when we always on our job?
We millionaires!
Killing ain't fair, but somebody got to do it.

Oh yah Mobb Deep, huh,
You wanna fuck with us,
You Little young-ass muthafuckas?
Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something?
You fucking with me, nigga?
You fuck around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack
You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up!
This is how we do it on our side:
Any of you niggas from New York that want to bring it, bring it.
But we ain't singing,
We bringing drama:
Fuck you and your mother fucking mama!
We gonna kill all you mother fuckers.
Now when I came out, I told you it was just about Biggie,
Then everybody had to open their mouth with a motherfuckin' opinion
Well this is how we gon' do this:
FUCK BAD BOY as a staff, record label, an' as a motherfuckin' crew,
And if you want to be down with Bad Boy
Chino XL, FUCK YOU TOO...!
All you mother fuckers,

(take money, take money)
All of y'all mother fuckers,
fuck you, die slow motherfucker!!!
My fo' fo' make sure all yo' kids don't grow!
You mother fuckers can't be us or see us.
We motherfuckin' Thug Life riders.
Out here in California, nigga, we warned ya'
We'll bomb on you mother fuckers, we do our job.
You think you the mob, nigga, we the mother fuckin' mob.
Ain't nuttin' but killers
And the real niggas, all you mother fuckers feel us.
Our shit goes triple and four quadruple;
You niggas laugh cuz our staff got guns
under they mother fuckin' belts,

You know how it is and we drop records they felt,
You niggas can't feel it:
We the realist,
Fuck 'em:

We Bad Boy killas.

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3 commentaires:

  1. Por eso mero no me gusta lo hipster, nomás nada encaja en mi realidad de poblano clasemediero no tengo ni cadillac arreglado ni 9mm ni tantas pinches ganas de echar bala al barrio.

  2. Resulta amena esta equiparación de gustos entre Ezra y Tupac.
    Solo tu “viajas” entre esos extremos.

    (disfrutando del video)


  3. lo mas fregon de esa cancion, es el contexto, esa la escribio despues de recibir 5 balazos ( uno de ellos en la chompa), .... digo si eso no te hace escribir una cancion asi, no se que no pueda sacarte de tus casillas entonces.


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