You can go solo or you can go blow-by-blow but there’s no low blows on Blow-by-Blow with Bert Blewett. So get down to it, put your body through it. (Know you wanna do it). Punch through the perspectives, screw the invectives . . . ‘zackly what I’m saying. Nah’msayn’?
Nothing can be taken with (you can’t even take the issues). Ahtishoo! ahtishoo! Our world’s goin’ brown, but you can’t find town. You need a car to get around, to get ahead, to get to Maun. To get the girl, with the curls that you dig, that you check around town (now ‘n then) but then again where’s town? It’s hard to get to. Can you?
Mid-town, uptown, don’t go downtown (ngumntu ngabantu believe what you want to), nditheth’inyaniso believe when I say so. Isidingo’s okay I dig that one babe but I don’t feel the need to do that every day. (I mean hey) I forget her name but she’s cool. Got things to do this summer. Check out chicks on the Stairclimber . . . big gigs and bad hummers.
(That’s what they call blowjobs in New Jersey. Hummers. I was a mama’s hummer subject, you check. But the girls, or the guys — so say some — don’t hum, you don’t come. They so skanky.)
I get caught wanking by the maid coz I don’t get laid coz I don’t get paid coz I don’t have it made, coz my daddy was a self-made man not anudda one a dem damn third- or fourth-gen men of means, nahmean?
I’m Inspector Ras, I MC, kak rhymes since PE. You heard me, PE. So don’t tune me, show me a full-time MC then I’ll bend a knee, but this is all for free, so don’t tune me — my daddy was a refugee begging sweeties off invading armies (For fuck’s sakes)!
Now the ou’s doing fine in a kinda mercantile, Merc and child kinda way.
I get pissed in the day, let my best girl get away, I don’t know what to say, she was cool now she’s gone, got her mail but c’mon, she’s gone ‘n got it goin’ on wit one, well, one of my guys. I realise when you break up she gonna make up with your mates (dem’s da breaks). Lots at stake. But you make out what you got when it’s gone.
Number one’s always gone by then so then a man gets down to one of them “franchise” clubs in Midrand and blows grands to lay hands on some glands or some grams or goddamn.
My mom is from the TK, ‘kay. Fuckin’ A, broe. But white like me and you (you check my move?), ‘coz if you were as black as all that you’d be reading GQ. Am I right?
Is the page full yet, mister Ed? Try to pull that headline deeper. Make that picture bigger my nigger, try to figure these words don’t come easy. My lyrics are loony, I’m the East Cape’s George Clooney, Miss PE wanted to do me. (Now I think she just likes me). I’m hooked on porno movies. Had seventeen at last count — that a large amount? Now how’s that word count?!
Nah worry Honey, punctuation is funny. Git wid dis “Comma Coma” shit, Git. If you could just hear the beat’at go with this shit I could bet you’d get down with that, ‘n it’d put a bit a what’s missin’ in it ‘n all’at. Can you sense the American accent I’m sayin’nis wid? (Respek, Waddy. Buddy-buddy. Ay; it’s okay. It’s not abnormal to be Max Normal. Though I never met you, I stood on your shoe. The one time at Joburg. Sorry broe)
I’m the source not the subject of all kinds of skinner, a five-times Hansie Cronje, poes-of-the-year sweepstakes winner. Now the ou goes ‘n becomes a martyr. (Huuu-uuh). Now there’s T-shirts with him as Che Guevara. (Tomato)
You say tomayto, I say fuck you. (Still buy your jeans, though). And buckets of fried chicken skin off you too, broe, mister Colonel.
Used to perve Donna Wurzel, jacked off like Goebbels on my TK ‘erbal, right-hand attack, solo wack aphrodisiac.
Please come back baby? I’ll be . . . I’ll be . . . I’ll be . . . I’ll buy 220 YDE bits for two clips each for us and we, baby. Just understand, any brand in the land could be planned to handle a lil’ love hiccup so look up beyond all that and check it:
I dig you . . .
So I’m gonna buy you some nice new shoes too.
And a bracelet!