DEFENDER'S RAP

• REALI-T:
• And it just don't work, please do me a favour.
• I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.
• Cos I got that block; please do me a favour,
• I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.
•  
• Give me space, give me time, give me more room;
• me & John, we make bangers, bringing you more soon.
• Told him, "quick, let's get the booth lit,
• if we spit, quadruple the hits we'll make a fortune."
• My words, I'm wishing that they were all true,
• but the block had a vice-grip on my core dude.
• Hid behind my smile for a while; that's what they saw through,
• I ain't sad; I just need someone that I can talk to.
• I'm guessing we've all established that everybody knows what 'real rap' is,
• I'm looking at Lil like, "how'd he get that rich?"
• While I'm coming with the fire like I'm still Katniss.
• Too many so-called rappers with nappy braids,
• put a few words together cos rapping pays.
• How can you cosign and tell me it's 'new wave',
• are you drunk on the Ducay or the koolaid?
• I'm decent, I thought by now that they'd know,
• they don't, now I've got more woes than Dave-O.
• Now matter how I move I'm stuck in the same place,
• it's like I'm on a treadmill running the same pace.
• From day I know my teams had my back;
• excelling in the work-rate that I've lack.
• And what I've wrote down really looks quite crap,
• I'm fuming cos I'm getting so side tracked.
•  
• And it just don't work, please do me a favour.
• I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.
• Cos I got that block; please do me a favour,
• I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.
•  
• SUTHERLAND:
•  
• My passions like my habit; I just cannot quit,
• adamant it's bad for is but I just wanna have a hit.
• Whenever I face no features like a mannequin,
• I'm battling with me, myself & I like Jim Carrey did.
• Sometimes it's - not what's wrote but the intention behind it,
• how much you will admit or if you're attempting to hide shit.
• Deciding to define your life with the pen that you write with
• is a sign that your life isn't as nice as you'd like, it's lifeless.
• So we communicate in Freudian slips,
• all of my brother's by my side like we were joint at the hip.
• The stairwells & underpasses all anointed in piss,
• nothing to do for these youths, grooming boisterous kids.
• All this on my mind & just wanna write,
• another night of nothing nice come from my mind.
• It's proper shite when I can't write.
• My only means of expression is honouring a mic,
• so when the writers-block hits my punchlines'll sock a right.