"To Be A Gangster" by Tom and Celph Taut

Tom · 02-24-2016, 12:13 AM

To Be A Gangster...
Tom (Verse One)
Celph Taut (Verse Two and Three)

[June of 1970]
Sipping my glass of whiskey as I swirl around each cube,
a bullet wound bleeds through as I attempt to speak truths.
My knee's blue from a riot more violent than starving sharks,
it's an alarming mark, every breath is like it's carving heart.
The bartender keeps pouring until this pain begins to fade,
my brain depends on pain but whiskey and I chase the sins away.
The stains on my suit raise my temper, as I strain my liver,
there's a faint quiver up my spine that aches something tender.
Seems money's the winner, being a gangster is all about the coin,
underground joints where respect is intellect and clouded noise.
The town's been destroyed but London will never die...
she'll forever fight until a better light shines from the shepherd's sky.
I finish my drink and collapse from the stool, a blasted fool,
tragic, consumed, once a respectable outlaw without passion or rules.
It's a drastic ruse, pretending to be immortal everyday I lived,
now the payment I give is in blood with no son to save my legend.

[June of 2015]
Sipping my glass of Brandy, handy, in a dim lit room....
... Inside of a club. Counting laundered money with a hand that lies in a glove.
Marijuana dancing solstices on the skyline above...
That'd be like a rock concert in the 70's if you tried to get up.
This was the "Stock" room, a couple men, dressed
in NYC cop suits, getting cocaine on their tactical SWAT boots...
An "Easy buy", I smirk to myself; a stripper dancing on top of me is
worth it, n' well paid for in the depths of my personal wealth
My head tips back, room spinning around, as the music is playing...
The plasma screen captures an image of me, on the news they're displaying...
But the words are drowned out over the MDMA resonance
I lived by the legends, which tell you, "Mark where your present is"
I ever so candidly remember my come up
it was ages ago...
I walked the path, they were waiting to go...
And garnished the information it holds...
So many places I know, and territories marked with a X...
Like we were stationing gold, the stasis is so complex
It would cause your brain to explode...
Paraphernalia staining my clothes, my eyes closing
Hearing chimes going off in my head,
the passing by moments, feeling like fly motions
A rap sheet as long as the back streets I owe my maturity to...
Reading from the template of the Gods, when the words are askew
I watch, as half of the city's assets rest in my hand...
Learned from the British Gangsters to invest in a plan...
That you will be overthrown from taking an executive stand...
If your dealings aren't in line to have your efforts expand...
This was entirely true, from what I recall, one
notorious Gangster was killed, while buying a brew...
And stayed to finish the glass before he died from his wound...
And this moment forever resonated in my mind,
I thought it was bold...
As to almost accept your fate, while taking that final walk down the road...
So, I lock in and load.
The fruition of my estate...
They kick in the door.
The two cops, on my payroll, grip for their holster...
As the blaring of sirens serenade the premises and the voices
get a bit closer...
I grab my jewelry piece n' then kiss it, for closure.
For a split second, time stops...
I picture a duvet layout, with me, inside of a pine box.
The muffled sounds must be firing shots...
The stripper's wails of agony sound like soothing melody's of embrace
pointillistic voids create space...
Then start to take shape...
Adrenaline levels overload, there's no control
happening rapidly...
Bullets whizzing, ligaments punctured, people moving - sporadically...
As what seem like hours in my mind,
time lapse seconds have passed...
A numbing feeling washes over me,
Arms contracting, impulsively...
As I barely focus my vision to see n incision in me...
I press to my chest, slowly...

I blink.... and nothing. Dead silence. A black room.
A light shining in, sight has an alcohol glass view.
A crept in space, n' all I can smell is some gas fumes...
hands tied behind my back, in some kind of a trap
I try to react, the rumbling underneath me is like
we're riding a track.
Bouncing around, like a tire was flat...
And then, within minutes, the ceiling flashes, with a firing glow...
In an instant, I am alone
Inside of the hold of this fire, exposed...
entire body is tied up, and no
escape is presented
The heat itches near my face with a scent of an Ancient apprentice...
Fate would have it, I would awake
and be placed in the trenches
What a way of making an entrance, to the doors of Satan,
with a spatial ascension...
Sweat beading profusely, it's getting harder to breathe
from cough and fatigue,
The thought of me leaving my body is more than an anatomical being...
I've killed women, children of men...
Ripped off millions, then I did it again...
Living off of the civilians, while building a trend...
Now, the cross roads are reached...
A perfect outcome befitting the end...
Now giving out handouts because they never did it to him...
The fire becomes a fortress for me, where I'll forcibly sleep...
in its crevices, an American gangster, this is his exiting...
For when I die, there will be many more at the head, again...
A history of onslaught beyond my grave, that'll never end...

Pharaohs Army · 03-05-2016, 06:51 AM

Bunch of good rhyming and clever phrasing in here
^better still with british accent or at least my attempt at it
But

Storytelling must be tightened up, both for clarity and brevity

some redundant and "formal"-type poetic phrases... personally I think they don't always "mix well" with the other lines of straightforward gangster sentiments

I'm sure there is a way to mix them, but it can be done better because the talent can be seen

if you wish, i will edit in some examples/explain further- within a few days

Eŋg · 03-05-2016, 09:56 AM

bagel you are the fucking worst.

how can you write internet raps for over ten years and still be this bad?

i'm better than you are now when i was a novice.

fuck off.

Orc · 03-05-2016, 11:49 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Eŋg

bagel you are the fucking worst.

how can you write internet raps for over ten years and still be this bad?

i'm better than you are now when i was a novice.

fuck off.

hahaha honestly

it's like he hasnt got better in ten years

Alice White · 03-05-2016, 08:22 PM

I thought the story was interesting enough, I was just slightly thrown off by the structure of this. But I enjoyed this for what it was. Flow was quite smooth also. Nice work.

Detriment · 03-10-2016, 04:59 PM

Bravo.

emcee squared · 03-19-2016, 10:26 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Eŋg

bagel you are the fucking worst.

how can you write internet raps for over ten years and still be this bad?

i'm better than you are now when i was a novice.

fuck off.

02-24-2016, 12:13 AM	#1
Tom Save the Queen Join Date: Feb 2016 Posts: 8 Rep Power: 0	"To Be A Gangster" by Tom and Celph Taut *To Be A Gangster...* Tom (Verse One) Celph Taut (Verse Two and Three) [June of 1970] Sipping my glass of whiskey as I swirl around each cube, a bullet wound bleeds through as I attempt to speak truths. My knee's blue from a riot more violent than starving sharks, it's an alarming mark, every breath is like it's carving heart. The bartender keeps pouring until this pain begins to fade, my brain depends on pain but whiskey and I chase the sins away. The stains on my suit raise my temper, as I strain my liver, there's a faint quiver up my spine that aches something tender. Seems money's the winner, being a gangster is all about the coin, underground joints where respect is intellect and clouded noise. The town's been destroyed but London will never die... she'll forever fight until a better light shines from the shepherd's sky. I finish my drink and collapse from the stool, a blasted fool, tragic, consumed, once a respectable outlaw without passion or rules. It's a drastic ruse, pretending to be immortal everyday I lived, now the payment I give is in blood with no son to save my legend. [June of 2015] Sipping my glass of Brandy, handy, in a dim lit room.... ... Inside of a club. Counting laundered money with a hand that lies in a glove. Marijuana dancing solstices on the skyline above... That'd be like a rock concert in the 70's if you tried to get up. This was the "Stock" room, a couple men, dressed in NYC cop suits, getting cocaine on their tactical SWAT boots... An "Easy buy", I smirk to myself; a stripper dancing on top of me is worth it, n' well paid for in the depths of my personal wealth My head tips back, room spinning around, as the music is playing... The plasma screen captures an image of me, on the news they're displaying... But the words are drowned out over the MDMA resonance I lived by the legends, which tell you, "Mark where your present is" I ever so candidly remember my come up it was ages ago... I walked the path, they were waiting to go... And garnished the information it holds... So many places I know, and territories marked with a X... Like we were stationing gold, the stasis is so complex It would cause your brain to explode... Paraphernalia staining my clothes, my eyes closing Hearing chimes going off in my head, the passing by moments, feeling like fly motions A rap sheet as long as the back streets I owe my maturity to... Reading from the template of the Gods, when the words are askew I watch, as half of the city's assets rest in my hand... Learned from the British Gangsters to invest in a plan... That you will be overthrown from taking an executive stand... If your dealings aren't in line to have your efforts expand... This was entirely true, from what I recall, one notorious Gangster was killed, while buying a brew... And stayed to finish the glass before he died from his wound... And this moment forever resonated in my mind, I thought it was bold... As to almost accept your fate, while taking that final walk down the road... So, I lock in and load. The fruition of my estate... They kick in the door. The two cops, on my payroll, grip for their holster... As the blaring of sirens serenade the premises and the voices get a bit closer... I grab my jewelry piece n' then kiss it, for closure. For a split second, time stops... I picture a duvet layout, with me, inside of a pine box. The muffled sounds must be firing shots... The stripper's wails of agony sound like soothing melody's of embrace pointillistic voids create space... Then start to take shape... Adrenaline levels overload, there's no control happening rapidly... Bullets whizzing, ligaments punctured, people moving - sporadically... As what seem like hours in my mind, time lapse seconds have passed... A numbing feeling washes over me, Arms contracting, impulsively... As I barely focus my vision to see n incision in me... I press to my chest, slowly... I blink.... and nothing. Dead silence. A black room. A light shining in, sight has an alcohol glass view. A crept in space, n' all I can smell is some gas fumes... hands tied behind my back, in some kind of a trap I try to react, the rumbling underneath me is like we're riding a track. Bouncing around, like a tire was flat... And then, within minutes, the ceiling flashes, with a firing glow... In an instant, I am alone Inside of the hold of this fire, exposed... entire body is tied up, and no escape is presented The heat itches near my face with a scent of an Ancient apprentice... Fate would have it, I would awake and be placed in the trenches What a way of making an entrance, to the doors of Satan, with a spatial ascension... Sweat beading profusely, it's getting harder to breathe from cough and fatigue, The thought of me leaving my body is more than an anatomical being... I've killed women, children of men... Ripped off millions, then I did it again... Living off of the civilians, while building a trend... Now, the cross roads are reached... A perfect outcome befitting the end... Now giving out handouts because they never did it to him... The fire becomes a fortress for me, where I'll forcibly sleep... in its crevices, an American gangster, this is his exiting... For when I die, there will be many more at the head, again... A history of onslaught beyond my grave, that'll never end... __________________ PEAKY RHYMERS

03-05-2016, 08:22 PM	#5
Alice White Member Join Date: Dec 2015 Posts: 72 Rep Power: 0	I thought the story was interesting enough, I was just slightly thrown off by the structure of this. But I enjoyed this for what it was. Flow was quite smooth also. Nice work. __________________ https://theprincesstroll.wordpress.com

03-05-2016, 06:51 AM	#2
Pharaohs Army Banned Join Date: Aug 2014 Posts: 2,956 Battle Record: 6 - 14 Rep Power: 0	Bunch of good rhyming and clever phrasing in here ^better still with british accent or at least my attempt at it But Storytelling must be tightened up, both for clarity and brevity some redundant and "formal"-type poetic phrases... personally I think they don't always "mix well" with the other lines of straightforward gangster sentiments I'm sure there is a way to mix them, but it can be done better because the talent can be seen if you wish, i will edit in some examples/explain further- within a few days

03-05-2016, 09:56 AM	#3
Eŋg rhyme capsule. Join Date: Sep 2018 Posts: 2,150 Rep Power: 0	bagel you are the fucking worst. how can you write internet raps for over ten years and still be this bad? i'm better than you are now when i was a novice. fuck off.

03-10-2016, 04:59 PM	#6
Detriment Junior Member Join Date: Feb 2016 Posts: 27 Rep Power: 0	Bravo.