[oats]

Lights glow in the rain. Red and blue, deadened hues,
dulcet tones. The morning’s approaching. Check the news.
Death and gloom, depression fumes. The smell of weed
still lingers on the leather seats.
License, registration and a bucket list of felonies.
Both hands on the wheel, he shoots the cop a crooked glance.
No. False. Moves. No twitching, stretching or looking back.
Yes, the fabricated apologies fall from his cracked lips.
Cuff of his sleeve soaks as the cop stalls with a flashlight.
The palms of his wrapped fists drip sweat onto the wheel
as the officer’s scan finds no threat or contraband steel.
The window rolls up. Sigh of relief. Heart still finding its beat
knowing a broken taillight can lead to chalked lines on the street.
Enveloped in a world where black skin’s a sign of defeat,
he mutters a single word as he drives from the scene.

this is an enviable intro, nails the setting and mood. "contraband steel" was a little jarring, not because it was categorically bad, just that the rest was so smooth and rhythmically on-point. I liked how you toyed with the meter and rhyme scheme, too. overall, it was crafty and clever to build that tension of a potential altercation, and then he drives off.

“Pig.” Some wear it like a badge, with pride and belief,
so damn certain that they’re on the right side of the beef.
The right side of the law. And the law is the order of man,
which in turn protects the weak and keeps discord in remand
to make sure everyone’s every day goes according to plan.
But whose plan? The question no one’s been afforded to ask,
presuming planets find their orbit in a sorted line dance.
But we’re ignoring what’s before us, it’s a sordid romance
where the power lines dangle like a tourniquet’s knot.
Now lest we try to expose this as a murderous plot,
keep in mind, it’s more corrosive and disturbingly wrought.

solid writing that segues into the main thrust of the verse. not always easy to pull off a pig/beef line without being corny, but you did that here. the sorted line dance/sordid romance couplet was a weak point of this stanza, just because it was a little obscure and didn't really add much other than a pivot to the aftermath of the prior scene. wasn't terrible or anything, just stuck out to me that way.

“Pig.” The job prescribes a head-down, stubborn mentality
where following commands is rewarded with government salary,
a gun and some power. See, it’s the vocation of broken jocks
who once assumed authority over nerds, grunts and loner goths.
The cap and the nightstick form the silhouette of an enemy,
a brute force of capital gains with death as a penalty.
The streets remain the home of cracks, crack and homelessness,
unprotected as we swig and pass back the opiates.
They’re told to only keep us off Nasdaq and Park Ave.
as gats flash and cars crash and black flags rise over us.
The corner: A training ground for both the cops and the thugs,
where the stakes are cardboard caskets and fatherless sons.
So we resent them, boys in blue posted up on our hard streets
who strut to the drums of black bodies thudding on concrete.

this was great (especially knowing the next stanza already). I like the emotionless, observational style to it, makes it easier to connect with and steers clear of being cliche ("fuck the police!"). It does more than paint the flaws of police officers, though; it makes their flaws totally understandable. especially on a rap board, where most of us tend to think of corner drug dealers as victims of circumstance in one way or another, that line about the corner being a training ground for both really brings that idea home. if we can understand where the criminal is coming from, we should be able to understand where the cop is, too, even if we can admit that they're knuckledragging bullies all grown up. that last line though. haunting.

“Pig.” Like the one that took the life of Keith Lamont Scott.
Flash his mug on the news, ebony hue — he was our cop.
Nope. We know better. From the crying wife to protestors.
It’s not that they’re Uncle Toms. They’re trying life as go-getters.
But the ties that bind us don’t sever. He’s caught in the trap, too.
Masks cover the actions of another affirmative black dude.
Even the white cops, products of a system in place
specifically targeted to reinforce their visions of race.
And we can’t breathe. Hands up, eyes down. Give up the chase.
Disassembling our physical frames in the name of keeping them safe.
The guilt turns to fear turns to distrusting avoidance.
That same fear, in them, starts this disgusting performance.
So we’re on the block with attitude, fist-pumping the chorus.
It’s fuck the police — even as the system’s fucking them for us.

one of your strengths in this format is knowing how and when to drill the closing line. this is no different. what I think sets this verse apart is that it acknowledges the flaws of individual cops, but at the same time paints them sympathetically. that's a hallmark of good writing (not gonna compare this to Paradise Lost, but there's an overlap for sure). to be a black cop in America right now has to be fucked, to be caught between identities that are cast against each other on a national stage. but even being a white cop is fucked in its own way: they're getting played by the system and set up to fail. you did well to avoid specifics of systemic racism and the militarization of the police force and how the force is a landing pad for combat veterans etc, cuz that would have just slowed it down and dulled the impact.

I think this was a masterful verse. it was smart, visual, challenging and written extremely well. possibly the best verse of the tournament. I'm not sure if you've just shaken the rust or had more time to write or grown more comfortable with this style or what, but the stuff you've been dropping lately has been so much better than what you were writing when you first came to NC (can't speak to Tha Talent days, so maybe this is a return to form). at any rate, I really really liked this verse, thanks for posting it.