Counting Sheep

Sample from Jim Dorsey’s ‘Tangerine’

[Verse]

Slip it quick into a conundrum, humble no humbug
Dip the kids into a Sleeping Beauty type of slumber
Lulled her when I grabbed the mic and spiked a slow number
Lack thunder what they gabbed, hashtag Jonah’s Tumblr
Put them in a bad mood, flow into a top down
Boom bap rap with a two digit tempo sound
That’s the way I like it, that’s the way I like to spit
Clip the other rappers yappers if you don’t like it
Brittle voice, flee-bitten little kid with a little bit
Of faith in himself backed by a drum kit
Spittle on his bib and dribblin to puddle up his confidence
But I’m flippin this high chair and kickin out of my crib
‘Cause all my life I’ve been hearing I’m too young just quit
I’ll set fire to stupidity instead of bong hits
And roll up a little bit of soul instead of blunt rips
And trip on every rich spittin, struggle talkin clique
‘Cause legit, right now don’t care if you hate my lines
All I got in this mix is my heart, soul and time
And dude, it’s all fine if you wanna crush these rhymes
Wouldn’t be the first perp to hurt my rep, despise my vibe
And gripe to the world, he’s just a high-voiced lie
Another cry hurtin Kanye’s time to shine in the light
For every other bribe cheering high for the life
Of a celebrity who cleverly is robbin ‘em blind
Now all my bars are free so come and peep my dream and passion
A lashin for every thumbs down, around passin my ration
I’m willin to share these maverick tracks and all of this like cash-in
But ain’t nothing physical split, my mix a hit and no c-note labyrinth
Madness, I just feel that need no commitment happen
This tape ratchet then scratch it and carry on to better rappin
‘Cause half you think I’m crap another fourth want faster trap kits
And my tongue callus from blabbin about your less than average ‘rappists’
It’s a habit, I’m sorry, that’s your opinion, your choice
And I’m mad as hell when cats put down Nas to boost their voice
Then embroid this silly void in every hip song deployed
On the stereo blaring noise, backing hunt for groin
Poison to my ears with cheers for raps death found in gore
Insuring that my tracks belong behind closed elevator doors
Poured onto ground floor and dumped for short a life in store
For sure, nobody will want them, less a profit than a chore
I’m less a prophet than Yeezy and I’m sorry I ain’t more
Just a kid scribbling pen to pad, a lad that hit record
Not a rapper backed by boards, bored by his fans adore
Whore towards his mic, might just rhyme when that wallet’s feeling poor
Lord!