Wednesday, October 26, 2011

"Shakey Dog" by Ghostface Killah


Yo, making moves back and forth Uptown, sixty dollars
Plus toll is the cab fee, wintertime bubble goose
Goose, clouds of smoke, music blastin
In the A-rab V blunted, whip smelling like fish
From 125th, throwin ketchup on my fries
Hitting baseball spliffs, back seat with my leg all stiff
Push the fuckin seat up, tartar sauce
On my S Dot kicks, rocks is lit while I’m poppin the clips
I’m ready for war, got to call the Cuban guys
Got the Montana pulled in front of the store
Made my usual gun check, safety off, “Come on, Frank
The moment is here, take your fuckin’ hood off
And tell the driver to stay put. Fuck them niggaz
On the block, they shook; most of ‘em won’t look
They frontin, they no crooks, they fuck up they own juks
Look out for Jackson 5-0 ‘cause they on foot”
Straight ahead is the doorway, see that lady that lady with the shopping cart
She keep a shottie cocked in the hallway
“Damn, she look pretty old, Ghost.” She work for Kevin
She ‘bout seventy seven. She paid her dues when she smoked his
Brother-in-law at his boss’s wedding
Flew to Venezuela quickly when the big fed stepped in
Three o’clock, watch the kids, third floor, last door
“You look paranoid, that’s why I can’t juks with you”
Why? “Why you behind me leery? Shakey Dog stutterin
When you got the bigger cooker on you
You’s a crazy motherfucker, small hoodie dude
Hilarious move, you on some Curly, Moe, Larry shit
Straight Perry shit, Krispy Kreme, cocaine
Dead bodies, jail time, you gon’ carry it
Matter of fact, all the cash, I’m a carry it
Stash it in jelly and break it down at the Marriott
This is the spot. You, son—your burner cocked? These fuckin
Maricons on the couch watchin Sanford and Son, passin
They rum, fried plantains and rice, big round onions
On a T-bone steak. My stomach growling, you, I want some
Hold on, somebody’s comin, get behind me, knock at the door
Act like you stickin me up, put the joint to my face
Push me in quickly when the bitch open up
Remember you don’t me, blast him if he reach for his gun”
“You, who goes there?” “Tony.” “Tony, one second, homie
No matter rain, sleet, or snow you know you ‘posed to phone me”
Off came the latch, Frank pushed me into the door
The door flew open, dude had his mouth open
Frozen, stood still with his heat bulgin
Told him, “Freeze! Lay the fuck down and enjoy the moment”
Frank snatched his gat, slapped him, asked him
“Where’s the cash, coke and the crack? Get the smoke and you fast”
His wife stood up speakin in Spanish, big titty bitch
Holdin the cannon ran in the kitchen, threw a shot, then
Kicking in the four fifth, broke a bone in her wrist and she dropped the heat
“Give up the coke!” But the bitch wouldn’t listen
I’m on the floor like, holy shit! Watchin my man
Frank get busy, he zoned out, finished off my man’s wizie
He let the pitbull out, big head Bruno
With the little shark’s teeth, chargin, foamin out the mouth
I’m scared, Frank screamin, blowin shots in the air
Missin his target off the Frigidaire, it grazed my ear
Killed that bullshit pit, ran to the bathroom butt first
Frank put two holes in the doorman’s Sassoon
“The coke’s in the vacuum,” got to the bathroom
Faced his bad moves, the big one had the centipede stab wound
Frank shot the skinny dude, laid him out
The bigger dude popped Frankie boy, played him out
To be continued . . .

Source of the text - The Anthology of Rap, edited by Adam Bradley and Andrew DuBois. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010, pp. 554-556.

Bourguignomicon: Adventures in G. The story rolls skillfully like a heist film dressed up in funny details (tartar sauce; Sassoon) & unpredictable rhythms.

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