Rap Is Poetry

New Level A collaborative poem* by Jeffery Williams (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA) by Fredrick Tipton (b. 1982; Gary, IN) by Darold Ferguson, Jr. (b. 1988; Harlem, NY)  

Jeffery Williams 800 capsules of Molly, Just be very still, I ain’t gonna hurt anybody, Hell nah I ain't Twelve but if I like it I cop it, I met papi and he said he good at uploading wallets. Catch me ridin' with them slimes, them my youngins. Catch me boolin' with them slimes, them my youngins. I be sliming with them slimes cause they my youngins. Catch me sliding with the slimes cause them my youngins.

Chrissy Carter bezel inside my baby pampers (eww) I get off the work and let the J's snort the scale, My bitch ride slow with the yay like she get L’s, I wear that white, I cook that white, but I am not no chef. Add a little soda put the tan on it, I got the shit for my L O and my shawty want it. I drink more mud than a pig, I think porky want me, And the front of the Mazzi look like a fork don't it? Let it breathe. I'm not no rat but Young Thugger be chasin’ cheese, I want the M's and I’m not talking Micky D’s, My jewelry gold like the tokens at Chuck E. Cheese.

Old English, 800 capsules of Molly, Just be very still, I ain’t gonna hurt anybody, Hell nah I ain't Twelve but if I like it I cop it, I met papi and he said he good at uploading wallets. Catch me ridin' with them slimes, them my youngins. Catch me boolin' with them slimes, them my youngins. I be sliming with them slimes cause they my youngins. Catch me sliding with the slimes cause them my youngins.

Fredrick Tipton Slammin' with my youngin’s, Couple hundred onions, Breakin down them 20’s what you need? we got it for you, Chop a chicken down to chicken nuggets for my cluckers, Spray that Cutlass threw them Forgiato's on that motherfucker Gangsta Gibbs ho', Fresh up off the powder pan, so low on the ’94, Bitch I want that powder bag, Geekers do that zombie walk Bitch I let the chopper talk Niggas get to talking, Ch-ch-chop ‘em off like Tomahawks, Ch-ch-chop ‘em off like Tomahawks, Eight thousand capsules of molly, Yeah, sellin’ dope and robbin’, momma I dropped out of college. Yeah, jumped off on this rap shit, I’ve been one hundred solid, Yeah, police ever catch me then they gon’ catch a body. 

Jeffery Williams Old English, 800 capsules of Molly, Just be very still, I ain’t gonna hurt anybody, Hell nah I ain't Twelve but if I like it I cop it, I met papi and he said he good at uploading wallets. Catch me ridin' with them slimes, them my youngins. Catch me boolin' with them slimes, them my youngins. I be sliming with them slimes cause they my youngins. Catch me sliding with the slimes cause them my youngins. 

Darold Ferguson, Jr. One night I was in Santos, it was lit like a candle, I was fly like a bird, I had on Stüssy Bape camo. With a cutie Español, she had a booty like J-Lo, She had Jacobsen sandals, you've been trapped in the bando, She has to trap in the bando, ‘Cause her momma got cancer She can’t work in the states because her green papers ain’t legal, Fuck a "Da me un peso,” She be like "Run de un peso," Push the molly to Pedro so she can feed her abuelo. She refuse to just settle on them shoes with them red soles, And refuse to be nude in front of them dudes on that dance pole. She can’t lose she just ooze a bunch of ambition like Nepo-(lian) I could be ruler and ride the streets on my Benzo. So there she get money vicarious off her friends though, Cause a kid named Birdy look nerdy but he be after the bando, She robbed Birdy for birdies now Birdy after her head though Hold on I think I see Birdy, and Birdy killed my Cuban ho . . . 

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Williams’ professional name, Young Thug, featuring Tipton under his professional name, Freddie Gibbs, and Ferguson under his professional name, A$AP Ferg. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Nonchalant  A poem* by Radric Davis (b. 1980; Atlanta, GA)

Now my watch so fuckin' bright It look like sunlight in the night I shit on rappers shit on athletes Me and Floyd should book a fight, I'm a sight to see for sho so your hoe should book a flight Versace frames so call me Forbes I done fucked every hoe I like, I'm so charming all these tinted chains I didn't even wear a charm, She like Bentley bracelets what the fuck is that shit on your arm, You didn't have to speak offensive cause my watch is so expensive women get so damn defensive They love me like kids love Christmas, I'm young active and attractive Nonchalant but I'm persistent I can get any bitch I want But I'm so motherfuckin' picky I'm a very picky person been like that since I was hurtin' You can't tell me anything bitch you gotta be for certain.

In the strip club chillin' so nonchalant, In the strip club chillin' so nonchalant, In the strip club chillin' In the strip club chillin' In the strip club chillin' so nonchalant, In the strip club chillin' so nonchalant, In the strip club chillin' so nonchalant, In the strip club chillin' In the strip club chillin' In the strip club chillin' so nonchalant,

I'm a fed target on the red carpet In a whip so new valet scared to park it, Not the average artist, an elaborate artist. My collabs turn locals to established artists. In the strip club chillin' so nonchalant Cause all these hoes bleed once a month, I give a chick a couple hundred just to leave me alone A little hush money so she don't ask me none. I still get love for the EA But I got no love from the DA, I see the DJ run it back like a punt return I guess I still get love from the DJs, But I got no love for you fuckboys Y’all still caught up in the he-say she-say I send love to my niggas on lock down A lot of them don’t got no release date. The J's love it how I whip it till my wrist ache My lady say that she in love with my mixtapes Baby if you love me like you say that you do Then you'll take these ten bricks to your ribcage. All the young niggas call me an OG, But I don't reminisce about the old days And I don't want nothin' old but a bankroll I outgrew old schools at a young age.

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Davis’ professional name, Gucci Mane. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Low Life A collaborative poem* by Nayvadius Wilburn (b. 1983; Atlanta, GA) by Abel Tesfaye (b. 1990; Toronto, ON, CA)

Nayvadius Wilburn I just took some molly what else? Got some bitch from Follies with us. She gonna fuck the squad what else? I'ma fuck her broads what else? Bitch from Pakistan what up? Ferraris and them Lambs what else? 'Bout to fuck this club up what else?

Abel Tesfaye I turn the Ritz into a poor house, It's like eviction number four now. Go 'head and ash it on the floor now, Girl go 'head and show me how you go down. And I feel my whole body peakin', And I'm fuckin' anybody with they legs wide Gettin' faded with some bitches from the West Side East coast nigga reppin' North Side Never waste a ho's time Bitch I'm on my own time Fuck a nigga co-sign Always change my number and my phone line Baby girl I don't lie Used to have no money for a crib Now my room service bill cost your whole life, If they try to stunt me I go all out military, I'm camo'ed all out like I'm in the military, I free up all my niggas locked up in the penitentiary,

'Cause I'm always reppin' for that low life, Reppin' for that low life, Low life, low life, low life, Know I'm reppin' for that low, low life, Said I'm reppin' for that low life, Low life, low life, low life, low life, Said I'm repping for that low life, Low life, low life, low life, 

Nayvadius Wilburn  Wake up take a sip of Ace of Spade like it's water, I been on the molly and them Xans with your daughter, If she catch me cheating I will never tell her sorry, If she catch me cheating I will never tell her sorry. Porsches in the valet, I got Bentleys, I got 'Raris, Taking pain pills on the plane, gettin' chartered, Poppin' tags on tags, I was starvin', Bitch, I got the juice and the carbon. Turn a five star hotel to a traphouse Roaches everywhere like we forgot to take the trash out, Flood my cross with ice gettin' money my religion, Got my baby momma and my side bitch kissin'. I turn the Ritz into a lean house, This the sixth time gettin' kicked out. I can't feel my face I'm on Adderall nauseous, Niggas tryna ride my fuckin' wave, now they salty. Runnin' with the wave get you killed quick, Shoot you in your back like you Ricky. Lil Mexico from no life to afterlife My whole life, my whole life . . .

'Cause I'm always reppin' for that low life, Reppin' for that low life, Low life, low life, low life, Know I'm reppin' for that low, low life, Said I'm reppin' for that low life, Low life, low life, low life, low life, Said I'm repping for that low life, Low life, low life, low life,

Yeah they stereotypin', 'Cause they know a nigga keep ten rifles, And they know a nigga keep ten snipers, Keep a baby bottle like we wearin' diapers. Yeah they stereotypin', 'Cause they know a nigga keep twenty rifles, And they know a nigga keep twenty snipers, And they know a nigga keep ten wifeys. Sniper sniper sniper sniper sniper, Wifey wifey wifey wifey wifey, That's your wifey wifey wifey,wifey wifey? I think I like her like her like her like her, That's your wifey wifey wifey wifey wifey? I think I like her like her like her like her, Oh that's your wifey wifey wifey wifey wifey? I think I like her like her like her like her.

I just took some molly what else? Got some bitch from Follies with us. She gonna fuck the squad what else? I'ma fuck her broads what else? Bitch from Pakistan what up? Ferraris and them Lambs what else? 'Bout to fuck this club what else? 'Bout to fuck this club what else?

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Wilburn’s professional name, Future, featuring Tesfaye under his professional name, The Weeknd. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Bad and Boujee A collaborative poem* by Kiari Cephus (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA) by Quavious Marshall (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA) 

Kiari Cephus Raindrop drop top, Smokin' on cookie in the hotbox, Fuckin' on your bitch she a thot thot thot . . . Cookin' up dope in the crockpot, We came from nothin' to somethin' nigga, I don't trust nobody grip the trigger, Call up the gang and they come and get you, Cry me a river give you a tissue.

My bitch is bad and boujee, Cookin' up dope with an Uzi. My niggas is savage ruthless, We got 30's and 100 rounds too. My bitch is bad and boujee, Cookin' up dope with an Uzi. My niggas is savage ruthless, We got 30's and 100 rounds too.

Offset, whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo! Rackings on rackings, got back-ends on back-ends I'm ridin' around in a coupe. I take your bitch right from you, Bitch I'm a dog, roof, Beat the hoe walls loose, Hop in the frog, whoo! I tell that bitch to come comfort me, I swear these niggas is under me, They hate and the devil keep jumpin' me, Bankrolls on me keep me company. Aye, we did the most, Yeah, pull up in Ghosts, Yeah, my diamonds a choker, Holdin' the fire with no holster, Rick the Ruler diamonds cooler, This a Rollie not a Muller, Dabbin' on 'em like the usual, Magic with the brick do voodoo. Courtside with a bad bitch, Then I send the bitch through Uber, I'm young and rich and plus I'm bougie, I'm not stupid so I keep the Uzi. Rackings on rackings got back-ends on back-ends So my money makin' my back ache, You niggas got a low Act’ rate, We from the Nawf yeah dat way, Fat Cookie blunt in the ashtray, Two bitches just national smash day, Hop in the Lamb, have a drag race, I let them birds take a bath, bae.

Raindrop drop top, Smokin' on cookie in the hotbox, Fuckin' on your bitch she a thot thot thot . . . Cookin' up dope in the crockpot, We came from nothin' to somethin' nigga, I don't trust nobody grip the trigger, Call up the gang and they come and get you, Cry me a river give you a tissue.

My bitch is bad and boujee, Cookin' up dope with an Uzi. My niggas is savage ruthless, We got 30's and 100 rounds too. My bitch is bad and boujee, Cookin' up dope with an Uzi. My niggas is savage ruthless, We got 30's and 100 rounds too. 

Quavious Marshall Pour a four, I'm droppin' muddy Outer space, Kid Cudi Introduce me to your bitch as wifey and we know she sluttin', Broke a brick down, nutted butted, now that nigga duckin', Don't move too fast I might shoot you, Draco bad and boujee. I'm always hangin' with shooters, Might be posted somewhere secluded, Still be playin' with pots and pans, call me Quavo Ratatouille. Run with that sack, call me Boobie, When I'm on stage show me boobies, Ice on my neck, I'm the coolest, Hop out the suicide with the Uzi. I pull up I pull up I pull up I hop out with all of the drugs and the good luck, I'm cookin' I'm cookin' I'm whippin’ I'm whippin' into a rock up let it lock up, I gave her 10 racks I told her go shoppin' and spend it all at the pop up, These bitches they fuck and suck dick And they bustin' for Instagram get your Klout up, Uh, yeah, dat way, float on the track like a Segway, Yeah, dat way, I used to trap by the Subway, Yeah, dat way, young nigga trap with the AK, Yeah, dat way, big dyke ho get it though, Macy Gray.

Kiari Cephus Raindrop drop top, Smokin' on cookie in the hotbox, Fuckin' on your bitch she a thot thot thot . . . Cookin' up dope in the crockpot, We came from nothin' to somethin' nigga, I don't trust nobody grip the trigger, Call up the gang and they come and get you, Cry me a river give you a tissue.

My bitch is bad and boujee, Cookin' up dope with an Uzi. My niggas is savage ruthless, We got 30's and 100 rounds too. My bitch is bad and boujee, Cookin' up dope with an Uzi. My niggas is savage ruthless, We got 30's and 100 rounds too.

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Cephus’ professional name, Offset, in collaboration Marshall under his professional name, Quavo, to form the group Migos. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Minnesota A collaborative poem* by Miles McCollum (b. 1997; Atlanta, GA)  by Kevin Purnell (b. 1992; Atlanta, GA) by Quavious Marshall (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA)     by Jeffery Williams (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA) 

Miles McCollum 'Cause it get cold like Minnesota, riding 'round on boulders, Money sitting up, it sits way above your shoulders, I was eating pork and rinds with a bitch from New York Times I don't eat no pork and rinds but that bitch was mighty fine, I got gold all on my necklace, tatted up my arms, Now my mama think I'm reckless, got guns under my mattress. I was juggin’ since a youngin’, free my older cousin Reesey He from Hamilton, not D.C, I rock NBs like I'm Gleeshy. Flip phone banging off the walls, Gucci on my drawers, Why the fuck you in these streets if you scared of them four walls? I was stroking on your sister, she was calling me her mister She suck dick for a picture, it's Lil Yachty, nice to meet you, I was juggin’ off them stacks, countin’ up them racks, Almost had a lifetime sentence, but I beat it shout out to Pat! Pat, that's my lawyer, he got me off them charges 8 stacks for that boy, he took care of the boy . . .

'Cause it get cold like Minnesota, cold like Minnesota, Cold like Minnesota, it get cold like Minnesota, Need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat. You need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat. 'Cause it get cold like Minnesota, cold like Minnesota, Cold like Minnesota, it get cold like Minnesota, Need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat. You need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat.

Quavious Marshall You need to stay up out the streets if you can't take the heat. When they said Lil Yachty hot, I'm like, "That's him or me?" (Lil Yachty) Wrist like Minnesota, trapping Coca-Cola, Catching plays, Anquan Boldin, Jug out the hot box, know that it's stolen. Large sizes, all type of narcotics, Woah, got a bankroll in that big body. I love my Motorola, I love my Motorola, I love my Motorola, I love my Motorola. Fuck 12, they can't pull me over, Smoking on gas and that odor Cook it up then flip it over You must've forgot it, we 'bout it like soldiers. It's cold but I got my shirt off, Trap niggas can't fall off, Big sack of molly golf ball, Big sack of molly golf ball . . . 

Kevin Purnell I trap in Minnesota like a Viking, Flood out the Sky-Dweller it got good lighting, We made the dab and all of y'all biting, Two thick white bitches, both of 'em dykes, I make a 50 before his acre I was in the streets but I ain't have no cable Me and Lil Yachty touch down at the safe house Skippa Da Flippa, I will bring the rice out . . . 

Jeffery Williams Cold like Minnesota, racks on fall, I told ya I iced out my Rollie then did the same damn thing for my brodies, All a nigga trap spot beating like a pulse I could put the heat inside the kitchen like a baller I could fill your bitch head up like a lawyer, Ain't know never sign posts. Big machine, big machine, I'm cooking bean on jelly beans, No need to smell it always clean, That money talking Charlie Sheen. I'm riding Ubers with the toolie, I got more diamonds than your jeweler, I make her come back like I'm Yugi, If you ain't know it, now you knew it. I aim at her head like a sniper rifle She can't be my bitch if she dyking, dyking, I bought her a ring but no wifey, wifey, She slurp on that dick and I like it, like it, No candy, she Mike and Ike it, No Nike, she know I do it, I eat that bitch like a hockey pocket No Nike, she know I do it.

Miles McCollum 'Cause it get cold like Minnesota, cold like Minnesota, Cold like Minnesota, it get cold like Minnesota, Need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat. You need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat. 'Cause it get cold like Minnesota, cold like Minnesota, Cold like Minnesota, it get cold like Minnesota, Need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat. You need to stay up out them streets if you can't take the heat. 

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under McCollum’s professional name, Lil Yachty, featuring Marshall under his professional name, Quavo, Purnell under his professional name, Skippa Da Flippa, and Williams under his professional name, Young Thug. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Wassup A poem* by Rakim Mayers (b. 1988; Harlem, Manhattan, NYC)

Back once again Sipping Henn Mixed with juice and gin Bitches in, Couple lady friends countin’ Benjamins, Spinners spin on the 20-twins that Mercedes-Benz Dividends made a change of plans well that all depends . . .

Shout-out my parolees and I smoke that OG Kush mothafuck the police, all my niggas rock gold teeth. So hood and we so street, sipping on that codeine, We hustle hard no sleep, your bitch loose that's no leash.

I ain't talking 'bout no money, I ain't talking 'bout no cars, Talking 'bout no diamonds cause that shit is a façade. Times is really hard, I fucked a couple broads Smoked some purple out the jars, let me tell you who we are:

I be that pretty mothafucka, Harlem's what I'm reppin’. Tell 'em quit the bitching We gon' make it in a second.

Pretty mothafucka, Harlem's what I'm reppin’. Tell 'em quit the bitching We gon' make it in a second

See me in the hood the gangstas saying wassup (Wassup) See me in the hood the gangstas saying wassup (Wassup)

Pretty nigga in some shit you never hear of, Only thing bigger than my ego is my mirror. Yeah, clothes getting weirder, Money get longer, “Pretty nigga pin your hair up!” The nerve of this dude! But I'm cool as a fan, 40 ounce full of brew . . .

I be that pretty mothafucka, Harlem's what I'm reppin’. Tell 'em quit the bitching We gon' make it in a second.

Pretty mothafucka, Harlem's what I'm reppin’. Tell 'em quit the bitching We gon' make it in a second.

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a verse within a rap song under Mayers’ professional name, A$AP Rocky. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Black Beatles A collaborative poem* by Khalif Brown (b. 1995; Tupelo, MS) by Radric Davis (b. 1980; Atlanta, GA) by Aaquil Brown (b. 1993; Tupelo, MS)

Khalif Brown That girl is a real crowd pleaser, Small world, all her friends know of me, Young bull livin' like an old geezer, Quick release the cash, watch it fall slowly. Frat girls still tryna get even, Haters mad for whatever reason, Smoke in the air, binge drinking, They lose it when the DJ drops the needle.

Getting so gone I'm not blinkin', What in the world was I thinkin'? New day, new money to be made, There is nothin' to explain.

I'm a fuckin' black Beatle cream seats in the Regal Rockin' John Lennon lenses like to see ‘em spread eagle, Took a bitch to the club and let her party on the table Screamin', "Everybody's famous!"

Like clockwork I blow it all, And get some more, Get you somebody that can do both, Black Beatles got the babes belly rollin' She think she love me, I think she trollin'. 

Radric Davis Came in with two girls look like strippers in their real clothes, A broke ho can only point me to a rich ho, A yellow bitch with green hair, a real weirdo, Black man, yellow Lamb', red light go!

They seen that Guwop and them just came in through the side door, There's so much money on the floor we buyin' school clothes, Why you bring the money machine to the club for? Pint of lean, pound of weed, and a kilo.

I Eurostep past a hater like I'm Rondo, I upgrade your baby mama to a condo, Like Chapo servin' yayo to the gringos Black Beatle, club close when I say so. 

Aaquil Brown  She's a good teaser, and we blowin' reefer, Your body like a work of art, baby, Don't fuck with me, I'll break your heart, baby.

D&G on me, I got a lot of flavor, 15 hundred on my feet I'm tryna kill these haters, I had haters when I was broke, I'm rich, I still got haters! I had hoes when I was broke, I'm rich, I'm still a player!

I wear leather Gucci jackets like it's still the 80s, I've been blowin' OG Kush, I feel a lil' sedated, I can't worry about a broke nigga or a hater, Black Beatle, bitch, me and Paul McCartney related! 

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Khalif Brown’s professional name, Swae Lee, and Aaquil Brown’s professional name, Slim Jxmmi, to form the group Rae Sremmurd featuring Davis under his professional name, Gucci Mane. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

New Level A collaborative poem* by Darold Ferguson, Jr. (b. 1988; Harlem, NY)   by Nayvadius Wilburn (b. 1983; Atlanta, GA)

Darold Ferguson, Jr. Used to be sleeping on itchy beds, Bed bugs in the motel, Now your bitch give me head, Twenty bitches in the hotel on a ramen noodle diet, Tour life wasn't so well, All my niggas starting riots, mosh pitting on your toe nails,

Uncle T doing so well, first class from a old jail, T Ferg did fifteen in the feds getting no mail, My daddy died and my cousin too, They didn't let them out of no cell, Provide jobs for my whole block, I cannot slow down.

Nigga, I won't stop now, mothafucka this is my town. Take the block, make it hot now, 143rd with the drop down. Icy chain with the watch now, third piece full of rocks now. Niggas squint when they watch now, leveling up to the top now.

I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, Bought me a new shovel, put these niggas in the dirt, I'm on a new level, all my niggas put in work, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level Bought me a new shovel, put these niggas in the dirt, Bought me some new bezels, all my niggas put in work,

Nayvadius Wilburn Bought me some better bezels Man and went to see my jeweler woo and I re'd up, Went and bought some new jewels Hit the car dealer woo-woo re'd up, Who knew we would blow up like nitro now these bitches need us, Woo I just tasted molly on me, Lord knows I just re'd up, Dib and dab in this some new designer I just dib and dab with the semi tucked, You on the red carpet surrounded by pop stars trying to act tough, I gotta Actavis on me, nigga, and I po'd up, They say that we couldn't smoke in this bitch And we fucked around and still rolled up!

Darold Ferguson, Jr. I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, Bought me a new shovel, put these niggas in the dirt, Chain with the new bezel, all my niggas put in work, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, I'm on a new level, Bought me a new shovel, put these niggas in the dirt, Chain with the new bezel, all my niggas put in work,

Daddy looking down I know he see me blowin’ up My grandma would be so proud, Up in Heaven Yamborgini know my brother see me I'ma make my bro proud, Tell his mama I'ma take her outta work Know that I'ma hold my bros down A$AP till a nigga die If you didn’t know well you know now! 

I gotta get in my zone now, I gotta get in my zone now, Only a couple-a more down, Momma gon' get a new home now, Teach Marty Baller how to be a boss So none of us ever go broke now, I'ma bring you to the water swim nigga I cannot bring you the boat now!

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Ferguson’s professional name, A$AP Ferg featuring Wilburn under his professional name, Future. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Freedom A collaborative poem* by Beyoncé Knowles (b. 1981; Houston, TX)   by Kendrick Duckworth (b. 1987; Compton, CA)

Beyoncé Knowles Tryna rain, tryna rain on the thunder, Tell the storm I'm new. I'ma walk, I'ma march on the regular, Painting white flags blue. Lord forgive me, I've been runnin’ Runnin’ blind in truth, I'ma rain, I'ma rain on this bitter love, Tell the sweet I'm new.

I'm telling these tears, "Go and fall away, fall away," May the last one burn into flames.

Freedom! Freedom! I can't move! Freedom, cut me loose! Freedom! Freedom! Where are you? Cause I need freedom too! I break chains all by myself, Won't let my freedom rot in hell. Hey! I'ma keep running Cause a winner don't quit on themselves.

I'ma wade, I'ma wave through the waters, Tell the tide, "Don't move." I'ma riot, I'ma riot through your borders, Call me bulletproof. Lord forgive me, I've been runnin' Runnin' blind in truth, I'ma wade, I'ma wave through your shallow love, Tell the deep I'm new.

I'm telling these tears, "Go and fall away, fall away," May the last one burn into flames.

Freedom! Freedom! I can't move! Freedom, cut me loose! Freedom! Freedom! Where are you? Cause I need freedom too! I break chains all by myself, Won't let my freedom rot in hell. Hey! I'ma keep running Cause a winner don't quit on themselves. 

Kendrick Duckworth Ten Hail Marys, I meditate for practice. Channel 9 news tell me I'm movin' backwards. Eight blocks left, death is around the corner. Seven misleadin' statements 'bout my persona. Six headlights wavin' in my direction, Five-O askin' me what's in my possession. Yeah, I keep runnin', jump in the aqueducts Fire hydrants and hazardous Smoke alarms on the back of us But mama don't cry for me ride for me Try for me Live for me Breathe for me Sing for me Honestly guidin' me I could be more than I gotta be Stole from me Lied to me Nation hypocrisy Code on me Drive on me Wicked, my spirit inspired me Like yeah, open correctional gates in higher desert Yeah, open our mind as we cast away oppression Yeah, open the streets and watch our beliefs And when they carve my name inside the concrete I pray it forever reads:

Beyoncé Knowles Freedom! Freedom! I can't move! Freedom, cut me loose! Freedom! Freedom! Where are you? Cause I need freedom too! I break chains all by myself, Won't let my freedom rot in hell. Hey! I'ma keep running Cause a winner don't quit on themselves. 

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a song under Knowles’ professional name, Beyoncé featuring Duckworth under his professional name, Kendrick Lamar. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Attak A poem* by Daniel Sewell (b. 1981; Detroit, MI)

We laughing at ya, talkin' bout doing this and that and We know you be hustlin' backwards, Electric Slide on rewind, My pockets is looking like rerun, I've begun to dethrone, you sippin' on that Seagram's Talkin' bout you gone kill somethin', Nigga must think they real or somethin', Go on ahead and pop a pill or somethin', You ain't fuckn' with me, might as well OD So after that one take ten times three, Danny Brown bitch and that boy Rustie Got the game on lock like we changed the key, Can't get in it whore her out treat that mouth like police warehouse Bust all up in it, nuts all in it Brand new tenant, moved all up in it, Cash no lease this ain't rented Came back now it's OG cynic, Who the fuck y'all think y’all is I'm a grown ass man I don't play with no kids, Back in 2003 used to post up and roll up bag of pounds of the meat, Used to trap O.T. with the D on the Greyhound bus one pair of jeans Sat down in the city Like, "nigga what a fiend" But I do the same thing now it's just 16s, Get money my nigga like ya 'sposed to, if I don’t then I might go postal, Back a nigga down like Howard tryna post you, If you play around a nigga might smoke you, Beware what you say in the vocals Hood star, everybody going loco Ghetto put a pussy nigga in a chokehold No joke that's the code of survival Battle Royale - everybody your rival In the ghetto everybody going psycho,

I'm a maniac, brainiac when I'm aiming at Knock your brain out your hat when I cock that You can't block that it's just brain out hat, Stop that, you ain't 'bout that, Send my lil' niggas where ya house at Couple stacks and a couple packs put your dollar bill fingers in a mouse trap, Off that cause we on one Can't come back like you stole somethin' Nigga might as well let me hold somethin' Before I take that and your ho for frontin' Pull up like smoke somethin' Zip of OG, might roast somethin' Pop a bottle, might toast somethin' Nigga keep hatin', I'mma toast somethin', Whippin’ out that Black and Decker, Putting lean in my Dr. Pepper, Chess shit and you playing checkers Hit ya chest, yell for help, ya desperate, Nigga talkin' that ho shit, might ruck around, get your throat split If you don't know shit, better know this Fuck around hocus-pocus You a focus, I'm a lotus, see the big picture stay focused, Your ho look atrocious, my bitches look ferocious, Breakin' shit, you can't coast this You niggas talkin' about practice Roll around with that acid, if you don't know start askin', Middle man be taxin', made a couple hundred, kept stackin', Know it sound like I'm braggin' but a nigga do get them racks in, I ain't gotta say shit, tell your bitch to suck my dick! I ain't gotta say shit, tell your bitch to suck my dick!

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Sewell’s professional name, Danny Brown. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Low A collaborative poem* by Jordan Houston (b. 1975, Memphis, TN) by Jeffery Williams (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA) by Onika Maraj (b. 1982; Saint James, TTO) by Brandon Dickinson (b. 1994; Chicago, IL)

Jordan Houston Me, Juicy J, got too many hoes. Me, Juicy J, got too many flows. Clique ballin' out, like the '98 Lakers, Pull up in a million dollar car and violate it. Fly to Cancun on Sunday, land in France on Monday. Faded at the fashion show, tryna grab a bitch off the runway. I ain't even pack no clothes, nothin' but rubbers in my suitcase, Laid her on the mic, ménage with my model and her roommate. And if I tip a bitch, we fuckin', it ain't no discussion. It cost to be the boss, my nigga, you way out of your budget. Who you playin' with lil homie? Your life won't cost me nothin'. Juicy J so presidential, don't make me press that button.

My beat low, my bass low, I ride low, she go low. My beat low, my bass low, I ride low, she go low.

Jeffery Williams I get a brick, you know I get it for the low Her ass so fat, I told her drop it down low I do a verse, you know my prices ain't low Lil momma know I like my kisses down low 

Onika Maraj Me, Nicki M, I got too many wins. Pull up with them V twins in my engine. All this ice all around me, like a penguin. I ain't talkin' bowlin', but I'm with the kingpin. I pull up with a nigga with a real big dick, that's just so good, man a bitch came quick. I ain't ever have a beat, that a bitch ain't rip, I'm fly everyday, but a bitch ain't trippin' You be on that bull, you be on Scott Pippen, I be pimp walkin', I'm limpin', C's on my bag, so they think I'm crippin', Every nigga in here wanna know what I'm drinkin': Myx Moscato, niggas. I keep a pillow with me, just because I'm tired of niggas. I'm with some flawless girls, they're pretty and they're thick, Bust it open quick, put that pussy on his lips, bitch . . . 

Brandon Dickinson I'm Lil Bibby, Mr. Everything-For-The-Low, Mr. Leave-Her-At-Home-He'll-Take-Your-Ho, Mr. Stack-That-Dough, Young rich nigga used to trap by the store, now I tax for the flow. Tell a rap nigga, "I'm not feelin' you," Stop frontin', boy, y'all not criminals, At the top, man they talkin' 'bout killin' you. Got two 9's but they're not identical. I'll never trade on my squad, nigga Ball hard, nigga, I'm Michael Jordan, you Lebron, nigga In other words, you a fraud, nigga I'll pull your card, nigga I'm a young boss, I'm runnin' shit Call me King Tut, all this gold on, I be blinged up, If they try to rob, got the things tucked, you ain't seen nothin'! At the club, their jaws drop when I pull up in that Benz, 30 deep, 'bout 20 heats, still stomp him out with my Timbs. I'm in here chillin' with my feet up, I told y'all that I'm 'bout to heat up, Man it's time to kill all this weak stuff, Pull the beat up, watch me eat up. 

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Houston’s professional name, Juicy J featuring Williams under his professional name, Young Thug, Maraj under her professional name, Nicki Minaj, and Dickinson under his professional name, Lil Bibby. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Multiply A poem* by Rakim Mayers (b. 1988; Harlem, Manhattan, NYC)

Back in the buildin', sold crack in the livin' room Niggas toe-tagged, sold gats for a livin' Doo rag, keep a red or blue flag in the denim One you be with be the one to shoot at ya in a minute.

Come to Harlem if you never seen Baghdad, First place I seen a nigga sell crack at. Where the hustlers don't sleep, take cat naps Shorty with the shotty limpin' like he got a bad back, back back,

Even in my will, keep it real, thuggin' in my field 'Til the day I peel, keep it trill, anything I feel, Youngins’ trained to kill, aimin', bangin' steel and slangin' krill, She shake it all for Satan just to paint her nails and pay her bills . . .

I ain't really fuckin' with that Been Trill, Swear them niggas’ booty like Tip Drill, Nah I ain't really into throwin' shots, But these mothafuckas better give me my props, word to Pac -

We're the reason that these niggas gettin' throwed, Reason why you niggas wearin' gold, Jail pose in the pictures, prayin' fingers to your nose I remember if Pimp was alive he'd tell these hoes and these niggas:

Even in my will, keep it trill, to the day I peel. Even in my will, keep it trill, to the day I peel. Even in my will, keep it trill, to the day I peel. Even in my will, keep it trill, to the day I . . .

When the real niggas die, fake niggas gon' multiply. When the real niggas die, fake niggas gon' multiply. When all the real niggas die, fake niggas gon' multiply. But if the real niggas live, fuck niggas won't multiply.

I'm the original Balmain badass, nigga! I'm the original Margiela madman, (in the words of A$AP Yams) Smack the shit out a nigga in these skinny pants, feel me? Don't get it fucked up, nigga, we been jiggy, been pretty, Still tell a bitch suck my dick, swag swag nigga!

Fuck with a nigga like me, RIP my nigga Pimp C, HBA shit is weak, you can keep that, Shit I might fuck around and bring the Jeep back, No doors on it, flexin' with the seat back B-Boy with the G pack, might fuck around and bring the mink back Word to Big Boi and 3 Stacks, nigga If you deaf bring the beat back, nigga!

Fuck with a nigga like me, RIP my nigga Pimp C, HBA shit is weak, you can keep that, I'm a trendsetter, you ain't even peep that, Where the hoes, where the weed, where the cheese at? Fuck the FCC, tell 'em bleep that

I'm the motherfuckin' lord of this fashion shit, Don't I deserve just to brag a bit? Set the blueprint, fuck your two cents Number 1 stunner, ask Tumblr if I'm accurate.

My motherfuckin' swag is immaculate, Plus I got enough style just to mack your bitch I think back to when pockets packin’ lint It's like a nigga got rich on accident . . .

Now back to Pimp: bitches lie, killers never lie, Triggers on the side by side, bet I'm down to ride, Prosper said let's ride to the sky, call it catastrophic We don't ever die, we just multiply, bitch!

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a verse within a rap song under Mayers’ professional name, A$AP Rocky. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Often A poem* by Abel Tesfaye (b. 1990; Toronto, ON, CA)

I usually love sleeping all alone, This time around bring your friend with you. But we ain't really going to sleep at all, You ain't gonna catch me with them sneak pictures. In my city I'm a young god, That pussy kill be so vicious. My god white he in my pocket, He get me redder than the devil 'til I go nauseous.

She asked me if I do this every day I said, "Often." Asked how many times she rode the wave, "Not so often." Bitches down to do it either way, often. Baby I can make that pussy rain, often. Often, often, girl I do this often, Make that pussy pop and do it how I want it. Often, often, girl I do this often, Make that pussy pop and do it how I want it, Often.

Infatuated by the fame status, She wanna ride inside the G-Class grey 'matic. I come around she leave that nigga like he ain't matter, That girl been drinkin' all day, need to change bladder. She's just happy that the crew's back in town, She 'bout to go downtown for a whole hour, If I had her, you can have her, man it don't matter. I'm never sour, I'm just smokin' somethin' much louder.

She asked me if I do this every day I said, "Often." Asked how many times she rode the wave, "Not so often." Bitches down to do it either way, often. Baby I can make that pussy rain, often. Often, often, girl I do this often, Make that pussy pop and do it how I want it. Often, often, girl I do this often, Make that pussy pop and do it how I want it, Often.

Oooh, the sun's risin' up. The night's almost up. The night's almost done. But I see your eyes, You wanna go again. Girl, I'll go again. Girl, I'll go again.

She asked me if I do this every day I said, "Often." Asked how many times she rode the wave, "Not so often." Bitches down to do it either way, often. Baby I can make that pussy rain, often. Often, often, girl I do this often, Make that pussy pop and do it how I want it. Often, often, girl I do this often, Make that pussy pop and do it how I want it, Often. 

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Tesfaye’s professional name, The Weeknd. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear. 

There He Go A poem* by Quincy Hanley (b. 1986; Los Angeles, CA)

Ain't got no jewelry on, still I'm shining hard, Ain't got no bodyguard, walking solo through the mall, Bitches and the hoes know they see me they like, "There he go!" They be like, "There he go! Schoolboy, there he go!"

Chiefin’ like a mothafuckin' Seminole, Here we go, off probation probably go to Mexico, Furthermore, can't find this in the store this shit ain't for the low, Got my daughter swagging like her mothafuckin' daddy though!

The patio: what a mothafuckin' view! Nappy chin hairs, bitch, I'm mothafuckin' Q. Uhh, mothafucka, mothafucka, yeah, Fucking is my favorite word, reason why I'm fucking her,

She swallow my dick and balls, whatever occur . . . Purr, I love that kitty cat, Ass fat, throw it back, I can't believe you wifing that! Deep throat, seven or eleven, she's a double gulp.

My pistol drawn, her boyfriend got me paranoid, Nigga try sneaking up on me and I'm making noise. But what I failed to understand, I'm the mothafuckin' man, Ran into him, he's a fan, goddamn!

I'm shining hard they be like, "There he go!" No bodyguard they be like, "There he go!" Up in your bra they be like, "There he go!" They be like, "There he go! Schoolboy, there he go!"

HiiiPower bitch, they be like, "There he go!" Black Hippy shit they be like, "There he go!" Magnificent they be like, "There he go!" They be like, "There he go! Schoolboy, there he go!"

Look up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it be this nigga here just looking at you lames, With my niggas yo we betting on the Laker game, Even though my niggas lost, another iTunes check done came.

Garcia Vegas, yeah, that bitch be burning slow, Quip a four, now the blunts go back around like merry-go, Uh, for sure, ain't no need for niggas out here fronting doe, Metaphor, how I come up with it? I don't fucking know!

Y'all acting like that TDE don't run LA, Coast ain't been this hard since Pac Death Row and Dr. Dre. Word to Dr. Dre: Detox is like a mix away So go ahead and let the grown-ups work and go somewhere and play.

Worldwide Holocaust ‘cuz we murder shit Without a gun or knife, it's just a fucking hit Pussy drips, raining in her cervix I'm a fucking pimp, Sagging low, crack a nigga bitch just like pistachio.

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Hanley’s professional name, ScHoolboy Q. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Raw (Might Just) A poem* by Jeffery Williams (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA) 

These nigga's knock off diamonds are shining, But they ain't blinding. No pizza bitch I got banks in my pockets, Where's the ladder I'm climbing -

She gon pop lock it and drop it, I ain't talkin’ wrist but she watchin’ Me right now, hundred bands stuffed in my jeans right now, YSL, there's no "I" in "team" right now, no way.

Beating the block till the sun come up I'm rocking gold like Rols-R-Us I talk more shit than Damien does I put the steel up in stain lil cuz I, I, I, I be that Young Thugger Thug, Throwing these bitches straight off of the boat We don't save them.

Hey, a wise man told me nothin', He said them snitches they get stitches. I just spent a Bentley on my kidneys, Saying I gave my bro the address to road to riches.

I I might just take care of bae, Yeah I might just make karat my ladies, On my worse day she a 9 like Brady, But I traded in the Keisha or Kaycee's.

Yeah she love me she love me love me for that Yeah she love me she love me love me for that Yeah she love it, I'm honest she loving that Yeah, my love is so big she can't lose that.

L-O-V-E, I say lil mama down to ride and die for me. Okay, you green no seaweed Psych, I want you to hurry get into me. I drop like ten thousands ones on her lil buns, I told her come on home hun, You can have my son . . .

We eat ching chong, diamonds they go boing, Hop inside that pussy like a trampoline boing boing. Hey wait, Grab that lil ass by the way, Beep beep beep like a bus on that ass so big I swear to god I'mma fuck her now her body getting’ big I swear to god I'mma do everything that I ain't did Plus brodie said that bitch pussy bright pink as a pig . . .

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Williams’ professional name, Young Thug. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.

Bad and Boujee The first verse by Kiari Cephus (b. 1991; Atlanta, GA)

Below is a video produced by Rap Genius that deconstructs the first verse of “Bad and Boujee” written and performed by Kiara Cephus, stage name Offset, of the group Migos.

No Problem A collaborative poem* by Chancelor Bennett (b. 1993; Chicago, IL) by Tauheed Epps (b. 1977; Atlanta, GA) by Dwayne Carter, Jr. (b. 1982; New Orleans, LA)

Chancelor Bennett Ooh, watch me come and put the hinges in their hands, Countin' Benjis while we meetin' make 'em shake my other hand, Milly rockin', scoopin' all the blessings out my lap Bitch I know you tried to cheat, You shoulda never took a nap, hey Fuck wrong with you? What you were thinkin'? Fuck you thought it was? You talk that talk that make a lame-ass nigga fall in love. Not me though bitch you can keep those, Bruh I'm at your head like Craig did Deebo. Don't tweak, bro, it's never sweet, ho My shooters come for free, so

If one more label try to stop me It's gonna be some dreadhead niggas in ya lobby.

You don't want no problem, want no problem with me. You don't want no problem, want no problem with me. Yep, yep! Pull up in the new thing I'm like: You don't want no problem, want no problem with me. You don't want no problem, want no problem with me. You don't want no problem, want no problem with me. You don't want no problem, want no problem with me. They be like, "There he go!" 

Tauheed Epps You old Petey Pablo take your shirt off, Wave 'round your head like a helicopter. I ain't put enough weed in the blunt, All you do is smoke tobacco. Where the hell you get them from? Yeezy said he ain't make them. My niggas chasin' bounty hunters And gettin' chased by their baby mommas.

My first tat was on my stomach, Got a pocket full of money, And a mind full of ideas, Some of this shit may sound weird. Inside of the Maybach Look like it came out of Ikea, Run shit like diarrhea, Big yacht, no power steering.

Aye, aye, captain! I'm high, captain! I'm so high Me and God dappin'! This is my blessin', This is my passion, School of hard knocks I took night classes. 

Dwayne Carter, Jr. I got problems bigger than these boys. My deposits, they be on steroids. Lord, free the Carter, niggas need the Carter! Sacrificin' everything, I feel like Jesus Carter.

Hold up, I got this sewed up, my soda poured up, My woes up, I'm flippin' those bucks, they doing toe tucks, I rolled up and let the smoke puff I lay down, told yah Hold up, get too choked up when I think of old stuff.

Move on, put my goons on, they kidnap newborns, In the streets my face a coupon, Her pussy too warm, All these bitches come to do harm, Just bought a new charm, Fuck the watch, I buy a new arm, you lukewarm.

I'm Uncle Luke with the hoes Pretty bitches, centerfolds, Tippy toes around my crib in they robes, just their robes. Half a milli in the safe, another in the pillowcase, Codeine got me movin' slower than a caterpillar race.

Fuck wrong with you? What you were thinkin'? What you thought it was? I just popped five Percocets and only caught a buzz.

And if that label try to stop me, There gon' be some crazy Weezy fans waitin' in the lobby. Mula, baby. 

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Bennett’s professional name, Chance the Rapper, featuring Epps under his professional name, 2 Chainz, and Carter under his professional name, Lil Wayne. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.