I had a dream.
I dreamed that I was battling the President
during on Open Mic on the White House lawn.
When my turn came up I said. C’mon, dude,
let’s not even take it there
with the hip and the hop of it all.
I come from the bomb diggy dang
Da gang da gang diggy because
I still have a sick need
to write about that street corner
I got standing on my shoulder. 
I’ve seen cats by the boatloads,
right before someone dropped a smart bomb
in their drink and they ended up
face down in a vault filled to the brim
with songs about rings and things
and bitches and what I said and bitches
and oh no you can’t say that here. 
Everywhere I go great scenes play out
with whaddup sons rampaging city blocks
like back to back hurricanes looking to make
anyone accountable for the state of things.
Got my ear to the street alright and I hear
that everybody is looking for the bomb.
Chemical bombs to put inner cities on consignment,
silent bombs, over the top classified official
authorized confidential secret bombs,
it’s your stop before your stop, here it comes,
I’m gonna step to the mic like an alarm clock
without a snooze button,
a sticky finger in a Tommy Boy vendetta,
a jackpot of clear frequency,
like up up and away
it’s the one that gets dropped,
the big joker,
that real atomic funk,
the gas you can’t drill,
the one that makes you fidgety,
that makes you change all the rules,
I’m gonna come at you
with the real bomb diggidy,
like boom,
just like that.