B Dolan - 100 Bars for SFR lyrics

rate me

No bullet, no ballot, no banker, no brand

No border patrol man will answer who I am

Know my words like the burns on the back of my hand

Got my eyes on the hurricane,

the voice of command

Good man and I stand out front

And I know my father died feeling proud of his son

And I know I got soul, I don't need your love

This love, respect love, but in rust I trust

In difference in pop trends and underground buzz

Digital junk collect dust

We live in the air now

Deliver the physical touch is too abstract

Too dope for radio as a matter of fact

Too bad for the TV, too grown for the Internet

Rapping like you give a fuck

Hipsters ain't into it

It's blues music, tell you the truth music

Quit saying I sound like Sage, stupid

I sound like the Wu did before the double LP

Sound like Kool G Rap or Kool Moe Dee

Aggression of a young LL, Chuck D

A little KRS-One, a little Biz Markie

And that's a real motherfucking well rounded MC

And If it wasn't so tough, you could sound like me

The darkness of Scarface

The aim of Bambaataa

Pollute mind state, anti-pop monster

Sound like Freddie Foxxx, I sound like Billy Danz

I study Pharoahe Monch, Boot Camp and Redman

I am trying to shatter stages

like Daddy Kane did

If it sounds like good shit, it must be Strange Famous

It must be Strange Famous

I'm gonna be rapping buddy

No chorus

See, I'm influenced by the planet we ruin

Personal, it's political, you pigeonhole my music

Personal for the children, original style mutant

The age of reinvention

The present and past future

Pursuing the rapping movement

And changing too quickly to bite

A sucker might say he nice,

but they could never touch the way B. writes

Stage dive alive, Evel

King Kong on the sub off for pushing people

Rapping by the throat

so they know it's the real you

All I see is smoke and the blow in the rear view

You don't want the mic

You want advice about career moves

Let me steer you, you should wear suits

In fact, you should fall back on your fall back

Or major in black studies and take a course in rap

You better off with that, then to walk the path

Sit back and imagine if Mac Miller and Asher Roth did that

Ha!

We come through

Robbin kill whitey parties for the fake drug jewels

You need more

But you probably wouldn't last the way we tour

Been fly since

worn out cassette tapes of Raising Hell

Now I'ma sell mp3's of House of Bees in 2012

Holler!

Age five

Struggling to stay alive

I saw my name on the grave, it gave me focus and drive

Looking into books for a a way to survive

I read the bible and Quran

and the writings of mystics

Obsessesion with lost text,

philosophies and scriptures

Bright kid, they said that I was never young

Tight lip, till I learned to make a weapon of my tongue

Defending myself from dead mind states

Age 12, told my parents I was a writer

My father made me tell my first story in the fireplace

My fire escaped

I fought a brutal rebellion

And stepped into the world as a veteran

Discovered rap in the basement of a FM spectrum

Connected with the rage

but I stayed for the lessons

I heard the truth and the message

Hip hop raised me so I headed for the center

Age 18, New York city, dark winter

Overexposure to cold left me bitter

Till I stepped on stage and made mother fuckers sit up

The snake men were trying to get with me

I went to that party, met Russell

Then left on some fuck the industry

Let's just get bloody

And spent the first rent's money on a drum machine

And ever since then they've been dying to unplug me

But death couldn't get rid of me

Give me the next one, buddy!

Back to the present, cracking ya chest with adrenalin

White rapper, menstrual show, black president

Lack of development

I'ma need a liaison to drop off a A-bomb

to fucking creation

Drake songs on the radio

Swine flu in Idaho

Rappers all riddling, they gave into a side-show

Lead based toys of the industry on viral

Yelling to make some noise

and that passes for a live show

Rapping over vocal tracks

Out before my local acts

What part of the game is that?

Tire lung hung my back

60 Seconds or less to professionally serve you

Crowd surf out and go work a fucking merch booth

Drop 12 hours through a blizzard, no pause

Get to the next city right before they open doors

B. Dolan mangles your language and mishandles the baggage

Holding hands on for ransom

With Hannah Montana doing damage

Thanks to Isak for correcting these lyrics

Thanks to B for correcting these lyrics

Thanks to B (again) for correcting these lyrics