Preface
This is a three-part poem I wrote in 2011 whilst following the NFL season very closely. Having also listened to a lot of super-lyrical hip-hop music in the years prior, a resonance between the hostility and braggadocio characteristic of both battle rap* and Amercian Football had begun to mingle in my mind**.
Whilst following the events, programming, and literature on the NFL at that time, I just began to write down ideas for lines as they came to me—including references to films, TV shows, hip-hop, and anything else I felt worked; and with some quite obscure references to anecdotes I learned from reading NFL literature. The eventual result was these three poems, which I hope fans of the sport find entertaining.
*Explicit Lyrics: As the poems are done in the style of battle rap, they include frequent profanity (none of which is directed towards actual people, of course).
**e.g. Hostility + Poetry = Hostiletry
Jump Links:
Part I: Hostiletry
Part II: Flamboyant C
Part III: Rush Me
Pro Football Trilogy – Part I
HOSTILETRY
[Live
Exclusive, locker room]
…and what’s your prediction for the game?
Prediction?
Yes, prediction.
[Looks into the camera] PAIN.
*****
Press lady saw into my locker, then left
and cried:
It’s a window into my mind—and it’s real
fucked up inside,
Of a pro linebacker like there never was before,
Who had some screws loose … then loosened
a few more,
And became the essence of D; born with the aggressive gene,
Separating the football from quarterbacks, and quarterbacks from their spleen;
I play ‘Will’—which means I do nothing slowly,
And I don’t do checks: just straight crash
homie;
I come from their left side, because it’s the best side,
Y’all call it the “Blind Side” … when it’s just my side,
Which is where I reside, with bad intentions on my mind,
Cutting corners there’s never wise—with me it’s
suicide,
And my dislike of Quarterbacks is so damn
extreme:
I get a quarter back in change and smash
the vending machine;
You see I radiate hate at a relentless rate,
And contaminate the quarterback’s mental state,
Blowin’ by his LT at the speed of c (seemingly),
I got him thinkin’ of nothin’ but me…
***
Thought he’d take what the D gives and all would go well,
He thought wrong—‘cause I gave that sonuvabitch hell:
Intimidation severed his cadence; pressure did mount,
To snap his concentration … then he was out for the count,
Trainers checkin’ him out on the sideline by the sticks:
“How many fingers do you see?”, and he whispers: “Five, six…”
Next-man-up throwin’ passes preparin’ to play,
With a look inside his eyes that said “Please, not today!”
Be that as it may, No. 1 was finished that day—
It was inevitable I would kill a man on any given play:
Split open his kidney but they missed it on the X-ray:
Hit jarred it loose → hidden behind his vertebrae;
His bereavement was the effect; my game was the cause,
Double Indemnity is exempt: my name is in the clause,
Had a word with the counsellor, and here’s what I said:
“You ain’t never bringin’ this one back from the dead”…
***
QBs can’t win: I changed the game that they’re in:
They call me Jaws—and my hat is like a shark’s fin;
If “Three things can happen … and two of them are bad”…
Then now a fourth involving a eulogy for a fallen comrade,
See “War’s based on deception”—but this ain’t the “Art of War”:
It’s the art of “Damaging QBs ‘till they don’t want it no more”;
I got a one-track mind and there ain’t gonna be no remix,
Believe it: I’m old-school bad like Simon Pheonix,
See as I rush the passer, I flush the passer,
But I go into withdrawals ‘till I CRUSH the passer,
And I’ll ‘rough’ the passer, to take him down a peg,
Whenever Sensei gives me an order to “Sweep the leg”;
At the snap, I never hesitate ‘cause I can’t wait,
To raid the tackle box and take-out the live bait:
Swim through his protection; use electroreception,
Don’t bite on misdirection but take one out of his mid-section;
I got a license to commit Grievous Bodily Harm
(Authorized by a signature held in his palm):
See he’s gonna be less effective after I tomahawk the sucka’—
My brain fluid has Coors in it: cold logic, mutherfucka’,
A depiction of pulp friction for him getting a deal with Wrangler,
When I strike down upon he with great vengeance and furious anger,
I go all out for the jugular—not just to nicks-it-up,
Then challenge the ref’s flag (be red when he picks it up);
Quarterbacks I’ve slain went from great to inept…
To wakin’ up in a cold sweat yellin’ “Max protect!”
Whenever I suit-up to play I intend to make ‘em pay,
For having the nerve to be on my schedule that day,
Been rearranging depth charts since my college days,
Where I averaged a cracked helmet every 2.5 games,
Even my respiratory system was built for this game:
‘Cause I inhale pain … and exhale disdain;
So by the time I come free you best have made your decision,
Double-clutch on me and I’ll wreck your transmission,
And just one blown block occurring on a deep drop,
Risks your lifespan becoming synchronous with the clock,
So spare yourself my game-tape, and save having a fit:
The unanimous scout on me, simply reads: “Holy shit!”
***
I molest the ‘Chess game’ through excessive autonomy,
So I see BS: got two-and-a-half men on me;
Terrorizing thrust; minus-three yards and a sound of bust,
Keeps offenses running at THREATCON DELTA+,
When I rush to the ball carrier or the quarterback’s drop,
I can’t be bargained with, I can’t be reasoned with, and I absolutely will not stop…
Until the play is dead, instilling severe dread in offensive coordination,
When the coach knows his man has been targeted for termination,
And if ‘X’ or ‘Y’ invades my zone with his route:
The only thing he catches is Zs when I lay him out;
I visualize my opponents ‘till I feel absolutely sure,
That every single one hit my mother with a two-by-four,
Then repeatedly cross the line whilst giving a fuck about fines,
As I—————————————disperse these offensive lines,
Use my sixth sense to exploit blockers when they’re near:
I detect, absorb, and metabolize their fear,
Get listed on PUP once been in the eye of my storm:
From that point on: “Psychologically unable to perform”…
Since Prilosec dealt, linemen are obliged to feed it—
But preparin’ for me is the only time they actually need it;
With Pro Bowler opponents, it makes for some irony:
‘Cause they’re wishing they were in it whenever they face me,
And it’s a treat taking turns around the corner of a street,
Named: “All-Pro Left Tackle Who’s About To Get Beat”,
When guarding an elite, whose ‘Midas touch’ “Turns to gold”,
I get so damn peaked … that what I touch turns to hold,
Then to fold, scold, consoled, once they behold:
QB turn Steve Austin … ‘cause now that fucker stone cold…
***
It’s a mistake to label me a “physical freak”:
It unheeds the inferno that overclocks my heart beat,
See an enthusiasm for pain burns a continuous flame,
And a craving to reign supplies all the propane,
Near insane—but strategize whilst on the sideline…
On the field: I just lock-on to taking what’s mine,
Where I react not think; decipher, in-a-blink—
My instinct supersedes any playbook ink,
Do it my own way, and so creating a new play:
Quarterback lay → coach saves for another day…
An original designer—emblematic of Versace:
Quarterbacks turn to stone the moment they look directly at me,
So you can forget all the media’s statistical debating:
For my mere presence is cancerous to the passer’s rating,
They need to quit hating, and acknowledge my reputation,
For leading the league in ‘Non-Verbal Intimidation’,
And fuck “intangibles” chat—just take a look where mine is at:
Mention me to any QB, then measure his heart-rate [stat!]…
To sportswriters thinkin’ only “Big Plays” deserve a mention:
Play close attention: I take their game to a lesser dimension,
A public enemy who’s got more game than “He”,
And on training days, Denzel ain’t got shit, on me;
At the Sports Science lab: in went four, out came three…
And Brenkus will deny that he’s even met me,
Carton asked my bench, told him I don’t lift weights—
“But I one-rep max two All-Pros, both six-eights”;
See a team can win or lose but on any given Sunday,
Any tackle or guard can get clotheslined like Toomay,
While rookies are leaving the field all hazed and abused,
Their coaches are simultaneously amazed and bemused,
Should’ve refused, and told him I’d be bad for his health—
Best put him back on the shelf … before I do it myself,
I see your unbalanced line and raise my unbalanced mind:
To ever consider that I’m bluffing is extremely asinine,
My hand is on the edge but my head is on the brink:
If looks could kill … ‘The Quarterback’ would be extinct…
***
On the practice field, I don’t ease-up
on my play,
Fuck what coaches say—I just can’t do
it no other way,
As for nutcracker drills, a clause in my contract states:
“He is forbidden to partake for welfare of his teammates”,
So when I’m ditchin’, I better not hear intra-squad bitchin’,
I’m the franchise MVP from the field, to the kitchen,
Just be on top of your game, ‘cause I
vehemently refuse,
To play alongside those who don’t really
hate to lose;
Can play Defense offensively—as I
demonstrate it,
So follow my lead when on my D—and
we’ll dictate shit,
As for coach, know that whenever he’s feeling down,
He watches my cut-ups smokin’ a Cuban,
with no-one else around…
It’s unseen—a force unstoppable by any scheme,
A nemesis to the other team akin to a wrecking
machine,
And if Madden’s right, that they all come alive at night:
Every quarterback bust in Canton better learn to take flight,
Ask the Oracle: she’ll tell you I’ll die the
best who’s ever done it,
(‘Cause she’s able to foresee what will happen if she doesn’t…)
I’ll double-slap the hands of fate
and bull-rush father time,
To keep on dominating the line well
beyond my playing prime,
But right now it’s do or die, so get
ready for CSI:
I’ma 1-8-7 this whole mutherfuckin’ drive,
Play clock’s at 3—meaning now it’s time
to rumble:
[One one-thousand, two one-thousand, STRIP-SACK-FUMBLE…]
Pro Football Trilogy – Part II
FLAMBOYANT C
[Conversation]
…so what exactly is your job on the field?
Cleaner.
You clean the field? Or … you mean you
“erase” people?
Both.
*****
Aim to
arrive on time at their target destination,
But face a Chess game, wishing no participation,
A Grandmaster player, as I concurrently exhibit it,
When Bishop takes Queen on a mutherfuckin’ Cat
Blitz;
With hand speed to disrupt any receiver at the line,
And foot speed enabling me to turn on a dime,
Both of which intertwine with fast reaction time,
Fortified by offensive tendencies inside of my mind;
Ball in the sky, I use coordination of hand-eye,
To intercept with a vertical that’s obscenely
high;
Needing a “short-term memory”—to that I don’t subscribe:
Even “The sun shines on a dog’s ass, sometimes”…
Playing off, the quarterback’s drop becomes my key,
As I stare into his soul, daring him to take a three,
Should he exceed, I shift my eyes immediately,
To the receiver I’ve been tracking via my periphery,
Back-pedalling, approaching three-quarter speed,
With my head down, and elbows bent at 90 degrees,
Chin directly over toes, and shoulders over knees,
With readiness to flip my hips—instantaneously,
Don’t matter if he breaks or goes vertically:
Real completions don’t exist within my vicinity,
Eclipsing every “Star” with no help from a safety,
Any place any time: they’re comin’ up empty,
Late fourth, down by three—or whatever the case be:
I’m so cool that when I sleep the fuckin’ sheep count me…
***
My Football
IQ is light-years beyond elite:
Its number exceeds the character limit of a tweet,
Speakin’ of which, my account is the most advanced around:
Any wideout tries to tweet me, his computer gets shut down;
iPhones decompose to the core,
Blackberries blacken even more,
Personalization and information corrupts
beyond restore,
They’ve been warned—but some are too foolish to heed it:
Addicted to their hype … and real
desperate to believe it,
Man-child dudes amuse me as they just can’t see:
There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’, thinkin’ that: “There’s two in ‘Wii’”,
And I change my style based on their Wonderlic test:
If they’re score is less than 10, I switch to “Dumbbell Press”,
Known for giving their self-image a 60-minute makeover—
Only business decision I make, is a hostile
takeover
Of possession—through cool and calculated interjection,
Via hit, strip, or predatory interception,
And I be schoolin’ rookies like “Listen up son—
I am the Papi, and you are the couch cushion”…
“Queer Eye” sponsors my side of the field, endzone to flat,
‘Cause they go the other way … (not that there’s anything wrong with that),
Good thing there’s no penalty for playing too few men,
As most plays featuring me are plays of 10 on 10,
Takin’ ‘em out clean ‘cause I’m professional like Leon,
Maintain my prime every time I take the field to get my D on:
Watch me reduce a “star wideout” to an ‘eligible leper’,
Then you can tell Madden: “I’ve just seen a ‘none-stepper!’”,
Take #1’s out the game and do it singlehandedly:
Pick a tape randomly—the cameras say it candidly…
Known as the “Ice Cream Man” of secondary hell-razors,
For serving wide-receiver in 31 different flavors,
The savior, of pure shutdown mechanics, the authentic,
And innovator of the style: “Vorsprung Durch Mnemotechnik”—
Half preparation, half anticipation, plus one half intent:
Now that’s what I call giving “One-hundred-and-fifty percent”,
See I’ve studied “The Way of the Intercepting Fist”,
And adapted it, to intercept … (hang on a sec) ………………………… this!
Put the ball in my airspace to die harder like McClane:
First I hijack the flight … then I break your fuckin’ plane,
And if you don’t know then give me a shot—I’ll appreciate and savor,
Ask around the neighbor’: I know how to return a favour;
There’s more than meets the eye to how I deceive ‘em with malign:
Rubbing the back of my neck reveals Decepticons’ sign;
Joe Quarterbacks I misdirect ‘em; Pro-Bowlers just intercept ‘em,
While All-Pros go four quarters without looking in my direction,
And gunslingers, I severely punish for not thinkin’,
That I can’t be beaten over the top, like Lincoln
Hawk; the ball I stalk with an ‘eligible’ afterthought,
Through possession of an instinct that can never be taught;
“Shutdown Corners” claiming “the best” are all just phonies:
‘Cause I shutdown entire fuckin’ grids like Nakatomi’s,
So don’t bother comparing stats whilst no-one throws my way—
Your argument contains no “value”: it’s simply DOA,
I’m seein’ two balls a game whilst your favourite DB
Secretly … get inspired by his poster of me…
***
Receivers’ ‘shots across the bow’ correlates to my game week,
Which correlates to defeat … and their Q Rating skipping a beat,
Some fool during the week, mentions my name, talkin’ trash…
Then on Sunday he get’s bounced along with the check he couldn’t cash,
See I never go for telegraph battles, ‘cause I despise ‘em—
Deliver my ‘lyrics’ on the field with no ‘yr’, like Verizon,
And to get my point across I never fail to hit home:
When they pick up the receiver there won’t be no dial tone…
Don’t fuss about fines, just set-aside part of my slip:
No use rockin’ the boat when it’s a dictator-ship,
So keep on talkin’ trash—I recycle then keep the cash,
Adding injury to indignity should I need to beat that ass,
And feel free to strap that new protection to your crown:
Only difference it’ll make … is you getting Schutt down,
Can’t sell me on your fakes ‘cause I never buy that shit:
I’ve seen your “Greatest Hits” and was unimpressed by it,
And leave the Wildcat alone ‘cause you only a “Triple Threat”,
From your car passenger’s left with intoxicated breath;
Won’t be ‘Excessive Celebration’, just ‘Flagrant Elimination’…
Then ‘Blatant Retardation’ for ‘Successive Inebriation’,
And preoccupation: ratings beef is harmful to your health—
Put the controller down fast ‘cause you played your self;
Anyone home? Maybe you’ve straight fried your dome:
Cellular phone tryna roam inside my ‘No Reception Zone’,
Put ‘SOS’ on your jersey—that’s on the real son:
Cause’ stranded on my island: you won’t see Wilson,
60 minutes blanket covered: it gets no lonelier—
At high snap counts I induce onset claustrophobia;
I know talking on the line is what a receptionist loves,
But 10 grand to who tells me what this “man I erased” does,
Claiming “Refs missed calls” to save face, but you ain’t gonna:
There’s no ‘body of evidence’ and everyone knows you’re prima donna,
May still have the ‘coin’ and agent to ‘show you the money’—
But I took your Quan motherfucker and you can’t get it back from me;
Next time’s at my house, so reserve one by the window:
‘Cause only touchdown you’ll be seein’ is on the plane ride home…
***
I cut
‘em down to size the way I play the Bump
And run—turning their Route Tree
into a stump,
Hard-technique on the man before I utilize the Jam,
And takeover his route like Newman → Son of Sam,
Slash the Stem right away—his name
won’t grow today,
But will fade into obscurity with every passing play…
The Slant disturbs the peace, Deep in trouble ‘cause I’m police:
Inside is life imprisonment with no
possibility of Release;
And the only delivery coming ‘hot off the Press’
Will be: “Quarterback Takes Devastating Shot
To His Chest”;
Bait and Switch; sequester the ‘catch’,
from the Pitch,
And make him dig his own ditch before
I bury the Hitch,
Diffuse the Bomb; stitch the Seam, and on the Screen:
I chase-down faster than a speeding Steve McQueen…
Swat the Fly; Sweep the Run and Toss aside,
As I go around the Block like a fuckin’ drive-by…
Hang the Curl on the Hook; for breakfast I eat a Stack,
Tag a loss to the Streak: there
won’t be a Comeback…
My chassis eliminates the Drag; I’m liable to sandbag,
Before I capture the Flag with a cold-blooded frag,
Quick-out of luck leaves him blowing
another gasket,
As he realizes the Cushion’s inside his own casket,
So ordered the mortem for the Post—having
willed it:
See his stat line in ‘Obituary’—‘cause I killed
it…
Golden-hand
receivers—are getting shut down,
Track-star speedsters—are getting shut
down,
Interception leaders? Get the fuck
outta town!
‘Cause shifty dudes from the slot—are getting shut down,
YACers hard to stop—are getting shut down,
‘Got help over the top’—he’s just another
clown,
‘Teammates blitz a lot’—a pretender
to the crown…
All the while I lock it down and whenever I’m in town:
Big tight-end-looking-fuckers—are
getting shut down;
Media is media but league-wide it is renowned:
Token catches are destined for whoever comes around…
***
Always shined—never needed the stars to
align:
My legend began to grow since the day of my combine,
Where I shook hands with owners and said I’d get the best time—
Ran a 4.5 into a cab … Rolexes were then
mine,
Thus began the rumours of my awesome Jedi Mind—
Some avoid me having heard it throughout the grapevine,
And having had you mesmerized for the length of this rhyme:
You’ll forever call me the “Greatest Cornerback of All Time”…
Pro Football Trilogy – Part III
RUSH ME
[Sidelines]
[Looks at gashed arm] You’re cut—you’re bleeding man.
I ain’t got time to bleed.
“Sip the juice, ‘cause I got enough to go around…”
[Huddle breaks, 1st Quarter 1st Down]
*****
Morpheus
once said to me, after a bout of kung fu:
“You can dodge tacklers but when you’re ready: you won’t have to”…
NBA agents were on my case, all tabling deals to take,
I gave ‘em the finger: “There’s 192 more bones
I want to break”…
A dynamite stick—lit wick—drafted with the top pick,
And hit the ground running with a shock-wave off the Ric’,
On some John Spartan shit: “Rookie
‘Demolition Man’ Legit”,
Was just the start of it: “‘Back Fined For ‘Devastating Hit’”…
Then a vet warned that my style will lead to a short career—
He got cut the same week (went CFL,
from what I hear),
And so it was clear: football’s “Crush-Artist”,
was here,
To spread fear with ‘prolate sphere’—and
gain mad revere,
As “The Prodigal One”: wasted Ds prodigiously sonned,
With ‘Prodigy runs’: always out-numbered, never,
out, RUNNED…
***
I’m Football’s
Dominique—but with a different personality:
I provide the highlight reel—but not with
the humanity,
Doing things on the field no one thought they’d ever see—
So “rethink possible”—‘cause I’m explosive
like a TNT,
Thus my sponsors are arranged with fitting exclusivity,
Like my “Yards After Contact, brought to you by Infiniti”;
Now take a magic marker and cross-out the word “Elusive”:
I’m intrusive, abusive—with running style that’s conducive
To inseminating the next squad with nightmarish
dismay—
My ‘measurables’ translate to “GET THE
FUCK OUT THE WAY”;
Don’t dress to impress, finesse—or even to outguess,
Coach plays strategic Chess—my forte’s causing D-stress,
As I’m able to pound the rock all night
and all day—
My 60-Yard “Shuttle” isn’t a time, it’s
a play,
Could take the slowest lane, just for fun, like Jor-El’s son,
And like a “Bizarro Jerry”: I choose just
to run;
It’s even possible to ascertain from my median plane,
How I can run so mean with a “beast mode” that’s insane,
Generating more force than three average running backs:
My momentum just begins where theirs is
stopped in its tracks,
You see “Force” equalled “Mass”
multiplied by “Acceleration”…
Until I added “RAGE” to upgrade the fuckin’ equation,
So on any handoff to me, I may hand my QB,
A running Flip HD, with note: “Point
it at me”…
All the while I pass-block like a discharging Glock,
Aimed between a defender’s mouth guard and his jock,
And a Jawbreaker play-faker: suckers bite
on it—
I’m sellin’ tan leather and it’s straight
counterfeit,
They can’t counter it—they’re at the counter buyin’ it,
While these Lomanesque running backs can’t
sell shit,
See they’re master of none and I’m
master of all three—
Hell I must be “The One” ‘cause I nailed that trinity…
Help my QB handle business in balancing the purse:
Whenever he throws a check down, I cash-in on the 1st,
I’m the goal-line Ricky Roma—a “Glengarry
Lead” closer—
Broken-down machines like Shelly Levene: your time is over,
Meanwhile it’s Ringos-by-committee to “Carry my pads sucker—
But never my jock: it’s the one that
says ‘Bad Mother Fucker’”…
My reputation transcends the realm of reality:
Even Tecmo Bo knows he ain’t ever fuckin’ with me,
I wear a lineman number on grounds of “Full Disclosure”:
“That ain’t no damn ‘back! That’s a running bull-dozer!”
A physical specimen more beastly than Ron Pearl,
With massive thighs …………… and my name isn’t Earl,
Want a notion of the gait? Allow me to illustrate:
Cardio-V8, muscular freight—no emotional restrictor plate,
With a rock-hard chassis—plus I don’t move lateral:
“Kill-Shot” ricochets to the shooter, so he’s collateral
Damage: you should’ve just tried to tackle me buddy—
See he forgot: I ain’t no fuckin’ tackling dummy,
There’s no sweetness in my game, my mind frame’s all sour:
I never let them die easy … and for up-to an hour,
My rushes don’t consist of defenders’ tackles missed:
I lead the unofficial list of “Failed-Tackle Assist”,
Defined as “Seeking out the hit, followed by pre-empting it,
So that he remembers it—or he can’t remember shit…”
Break his will when I connect, ‘cause I am the game controller:
[CONTINUE? 9 … 8 … 7 …………… GAME OVER]
Listen closely to my stomach after carrying the rock:
You’re gonna hear it “Tick Tock” ‘cause I eat-up mad clock,
Makin’ the D sick of me, and my friend “1st & 10”,
Breakin’ their mental plane as I hit the endzone again,
And I never act up, like it’s my first time in the joint—
But I’ll kick the PAT just to make a fuckin’ point
That I’m the primo—their own damn fans, fiend my steelo,
‘Cause wherever I tote the rock I jack the city like Nino,
In any weather on any surface; I’m not an “All Purpose”;
Get more YAC by accident than all these fools get on purpose,
While “Playmakers” be smackin’ around their own baby mama,
And causing drama … I’m savagely causing blunt force trauma,
As I mow-down would-be tacklers with an untold vigour:
Only time I ever juked was pressing an Xbox trigger,
Which made me mad: so I ripped the cord out of the port—
Forget “EA Sports”: I’ll send you to A&E—sport,
‘Cause “If it’s in the game…” … I shall inflict it pain,
2-Dimensioning any frame that’s squared within my lane,
Like the Genesis game—miss the ambulance? Then complain,
But I brought it back all the same, as the league could not refrain
A legal style that’s inhumane, representing all their bane,
How I stain their wholesome feign when off the mutherfuckin’ chain,
Displaying the inside, outside, and “…to the house” game,
With added propensity to maim my way into the Hall of Fame,
The rushing triplex; the real “Total Package”, not Lex,
And there ain’t no “kayfabe” when I smash a solar plex,
So my backups wear skates instead of cleats—suffice it
To say: they never see the game until I ice it…
Coach
will discrete it but it’s the worst kept secret,
Take the play-call and tweet it—they still
can’t defeat it,
Perpetually in my prime and way ahead
of my time,
Leaving stud-prints on many a future
Hall of Famer’s spine,
Still haven’t fumbled—but I might to start a ruckus:
Got multiple personalities and one of em’s a Butkus,
An All-Pro linebacker with an excuse to
lay a pounding:
Never spin—except on the phrase “Intentional
Grounding”,
Named my biceps “Smith” and “Wesson”—and
tattooed ‘em:
“When you’ve got the big guns,” father said, “you shoot ‘em”,
So I cock-back the forearm after switching my grip,
Lick my lips as I equip to fire a shiver from the clip,
And that’s it: tryna to go for the
strip is crazy,
Call Oda Mae to ask the last one ‘cause he ghost
like Swayze,
Never need to Shake ‘n’ Bake, or fake, to make a break,
Hence my tendency to leave a trail of
bodies in my wake,
With the occasional chalk outline somewhere in between it:
“New to Sunday Night Football: NBCrime-Scene-It”,
Network execs, be sure to get on that
right away:
Even Albino’s gonna need a little
help with Slay-by-Play™…
Replayed often on GameDay—just go check “Prime Time”,
1 through 9 (they all mine—other sucker got token
shine),
Then checkout “Sound FX” to hear the call to 911:
“Man down, I think he’s done—license plate was ‘HIT N RUN’”…
Hours of
study’s not for me, what with near clairvoyancy,
And “Vorsprung Durch Just-wreckin’-shit”
‘cause I’m not flamboyant, see?
But got my own “Hidden Game” to add
to the next edition:
X-rays of every linebacker who entered my
division;
Performance-based charity to a random mortuary:
Via donations to 0.01 graveyards per
carry,
‘Cause [Throw the damn towel!] when I’m rushin’ you best believe:
I don’t see a “goal line”, I just see a Balboa-Creed,
Takin’ it way beyond just “Keeping
the defense honest”:
Give me 60 minutes and I’ll tell you
what’s in their closets…
And yeah I move the chains, but I disapprove the chains:
Can’t get hit by my debris if they remove
the chains,
Time for change—those crew-men never needed to have croaked:
Could never have coped, brains stroked:
they got “Chain-Smoked”…
Not big on cordiality: so fuck all “Fantasy”—
Least until they add a multiplier for brutality:
“Fantasy File” will be me, home free, at the 10—
From eleven slain men, jersey reads:
“DON’T PICK THEM”…
***
Mow the defense like a lawn, shredding their playbook ‘till it’s gone,
Like every page that it was on, was headed “E” for “Enron”,
A Sharpshooter to their game: front-seven submits, laying slain,
While the secondary passes-out stone-cold from the pain,
Leaving my marks all over their whole defensive roster:
I crave contact …………… and not the kind like Jodie Foster,
Whenever I lower the shoulder, I become ‘Running Boulder’…
(It’s not a “business decision”: he wants to live to grow older)
Just too hard to stop—he thought he did, but he did not:
“What the hell?! I landed my very best damn shot!”
…No mouth guard on when I put that Heisman in his grill:
Gave him my dentist’s card (I gets commission off the bill),
…Came at me down the sideline, wishfully hoping I’d duck-out,
And didn’t luck-out, but struck-out, when he got knocked the fuck-out,
…Straight ate a DB [FLAG]—ref looked at me and cowered:
“No foul on the play: Defender was just devoured.”
Case closed, court adjourned; next-man-up looked real concerned,
“Best never get-off my blocks”, he appeared to have discerned…
Slash
different than Kordell: cut Ds open like C-section—
Who regret speakin’ my name five times, upon reflection,
Make the connection—or I’ll chew-up yardage like
it’s candy,
And if you do, don’t try get all macho like Randy
‘Cause I’m savage; your doctor
advises you up your paddage,
As I run angrier than his therapy can
manage;
When you “cloned” me for scout team you asked for trouble dude:
See I clowned you on the field,
‘cause I got the “W”,
That’s a false sense of security—you may as well dress a wino:
Preparin’ for me, adequately, better go get yourself a rhino,
There’s a price to bring me down—you best save-up early for it
(If your secondary chips-in, you might
just manage to afford it),
And you’ll be dead wrong if doubt
I’ll come again strong:
Put the “D” in “Demoralize” and you’re who
I took it from,
Like a Blanka with a rock, makin’ you feel electric shock:
When I hit you you stay hit … and well beyond a play clock;
Try that reach-tackle on me you’ll
only double your pain:
When you extend your arm I break-it-off
for big gain,
Or try that run-blitz some more, if you think it’ll save you:
You’ll just find that shit is pointless
like Grange’s debut,
Don’t matter if all eleven are
instructed to key:
Unlocked Pandora’s Box and now you’ve got to tackle me,
See a “series” to me is Rambo I, II and III:
Draw first blood and I give you a war you won’t
believe,
With a penchant for aiming shots to get a few more yards
Whilst damaging your inn-ards … and
leaving my worst regards…
It’s a must that I bust any Mike with his hand on me
(Extra-merited when I run through his family),
The will out of Mike and the mike out of Will I take,
And play Sam again and again … for old time’s sake,
While safeties are gettin’ ill seein’ me running downhill,
Prayin’ they don’t end up like Jack along with Jill,
And they will—‘cause I don’t ever dance with the stars:
Just make defenders see ‘em as I accumulate yards;
Corners get bowled-over whenever trying to engage
(And after they fold-over we stay on the same page),
Nickels lose their shine, getting covered in turf and grime,
And whenever I turn on a dime he can expect downtime,
After which they reassign—try stacking the whole line:
My vital signs combine so pleasure and pain intertwine,
As I start to malign ‘backers, one | At | A | time,
Then stomp on DBs to make ‘Defensive Back Wine‘,
Fresh off the vine—quenching my thirst, as I dine,
‘Cause I dig on any swine grilled on a Gridir’n,
That’s any D-line—I really don’t give a front:
Regular with stunt—break any nose that takes the brunt,
Giving DTs the shakes as they withdraw then retreat,
And make Ends meet: ‘The Elite’—A.K.A. ‘Defeat‘…
***
You’re lookin’ at No. 1 so recognize, No. 2:
I’m the NFL Street “Gamebreaker” version of you,
My conditioning is definitive—by comparison yours is primitive—
Like the creature from Jekyll Island: my reserve is unlimited,
I’m the undisputed champ: from the top down I reign,
Extinguishing Jim Brown’s flame—the Ben Richards of this game,
See a man’s best friend’s usually a D-O-G—
Unless he’s a QB: then it’s the ground-game G-O-D,
A.K.A. me, A.K.A. the one you wanna be,
‘Cause while you ‘run by committee’ I said “Bye–bye committee…”
Think you’re better than me whilst too illiterate to see:
I ain’t the one who needs someone so they can ‘spell’ for me,
And I don’t do gimmicks, or carry gadgets around,
So no trick plays—like your disappearing act on 3rd down,
Take two totes and pass ‘cause you’re a slave to the rotation,
Too high to see you’re a non-pass-blocking imitation
Of an ‘Elite Rusher’, slash ‘Every-Down Bone Crusher‘,
Slash ‘I Turned Your Own O.C. Into A Closet ‘Me’ Gusher’,
You’ve got the skill but not the will, and you lack the intent,
To switch your mind from “Superstar!” to “Mutherfuckin’ Hell-Bent”,
You get stopped one-on-one—I’ll eat a linebacker clique:
The only trucking you be doing is with your analogue stick,
And don’t give me forty times, so keep your “4.3 and change”:
I run through 4.3 defenders leaving 4.3 stains
On the turf; your best is softer … than my worst:
My opponents get dispersed while you get “Madden cursed”,
‘Cause your “East to West” style ain’t never bloodied a mouth,
While my style’s straight “Smash ‘em in the North and in the South”,
Your line turns Ds to Swiss Cheese, yet it’s “Me that did it”,
And an ‘L’ guarantees you only talkin’ “We just didn’t…”,
Well you’re a liar—you set your own pants on fire:
“Rush style’s Barry” … but carry like Mariah,
[Click-click-click-click-click…] collecting style-points on a pitch…
While afraid of touchin’ shit, your game is micro-soft bitch,
There’s more toughness in the tip of Rocky Bleier’s toe,
And in case you didn’t know: he don’t even have it no mo’!
Put a lineman in front of me and his market value grows,
While yours are hitting “dislike” on your YouTube videos,
‘Cause “Four seconds is a lifetime” … but ran into the carnage,
Went for the glory (same old story), picking up some ‘Retardage’…
Records you can take—I break bones without a break:
All your numbers should be asterisked with the word ‘Cupcake’,
Think your stats are nice now but your future I’ve foreseen,
Inside a bakery ‘cause you’re a turnover machine,
Managed to cut-down on your fumbles from scrimmage—
Signed-up to Twitter: now you fumble your image:
Carry a ‘ball around to fix the problem with your grip—
Agent carry you around to nix your stupid public shit,
Babysitting your ass, tryin’ to get you to be discreet,
Like: “What good is iPhone 4 if you’re unable to tweet?”
And to the clown who tweeted braggin’ that he’s got more carries than me:
make my points with half the touches. if u r able to count, feel free.
Holding out I see—hope your agent can handle his B,
I handle mine like a G, i.e. “Fuck You Pay Me”,
And what do we have here? Another one-hit-wonder,
Rode your teammates to the top, fumbled the rock, now you under
-stand: you’re not the man—never were, never can,
Thought you had a grip on things but let it get out-of-hand,
See those who skip the mock test will believe they rock best,
But they become rock-less … then unseen like Loch Ness;
A 2-D runner like Lode, who got stuck in ‘Blue Pill Mode’,
‘Till you fuckin’ locoed—I see lines of Matrix code,
My antipode: trip over your fullback when he leads you—
And aptly metaphor your reputation, which precedes you…
While this dude over here got all of his fans to fawn—
but Not For Long: he’s XFL, ‘cause he’s gone,
See when I “Boom”, they “Bust”—and you weren’t trusted,
Call it “Miscarriage with justice”, when you fuckin’ busted,
You forgot about the game and got played by all the fame:
Time to go and rake the leaves off Papale’s lawn, mane;
Hey fool! Lose the headband quick ‘cause you ain’t Walter:
See he ain’t falter, whenever he carried the Gibraltar,
Been firing blanks at the hole, falling short of the goal:
Better to walk away now than go out like Billy Cole…
Here’s another busted pick someone’s not ready to admit,
So he still gets the ball when he don’t do much with it,
Mind ain’t fit: you’d better bring that hard-core play,
Touches are fore-play … very soon to be no-more play;
And what happened to you man? You was wilder than Wonka,
A stomper like a Csonka … now you ‘truck’ more like a Tonka,
You’re a “Has-” bro: the “been” has come and gone,
Cling to scraps and beg for snaps: it’s sad to watch you carry on;
Average pro turned media Joe: keep my name out your pie-hole:
Ate-and-ate, got overweight—envy’s poison to the soul…
***
“Football’s first and foremost a running game—that will never change”…
Remember him? His message to you from beyond the grave:
“I turn over in my tomb whenever you pass on 3rd & 2—
But get stopped on 3rd & 1 and I’ll fucking haunt you son!”
I run to win and win to run—destroying Ds is mad fun,
Of my hobbies it’s No. 1—and be done when I say done;
Movie career’s not to be: tested for Fugitive 3:
“It’s time to stop running!” … should never have said that shit to me…
More like Furious 7—minus Paul, minus Vin,
No cars, just me and the rock … and I don’t mean him;
Now ya’ll see: keep fuckin’ around over a CBA,
Then I’ll “South Beach” my talents … and I may just stay…
[300 yards and runnin’, inside the clover]
Save your last quarter: it’s already GAME OVER
Stepping Stones 