M.M.

Please stand up for Marshall Mathers.              
Been three decades and his bars still matter.           
Almost 50 fat cakes so hold the cheddar.         
These wraps ain’t vegan, lemme hide the leather.    
     
The shine is real, put on shades with weight.      
No slim-rimmed rays. Block out all the hate.         
No braids were meant to meet my fears,      
but they seem so full of shit-ney Spears.                     
                               
Sorry, I meant full like brassieres.                        
Like when I wear them.                              
So I guess emptier                              
than a trailer park’s worth reserve of beer.      
Can I open a can of opened rears?                              
                               
Ahem, testing, attention please.                              
Can someone call me a D.O.C?                              
My M.I.C has enhanced my sneeze.      
Now this powering clout is all I see.                              
                               
Getting mad broke over a limp-dick brag joke,     
no riches to pave my own damn way.      
Letting fat ropes drip over a fat ho’s backbones,    
take dad jokes over a joke-for-a-dad any day.  
                               
My mom is my biggest fan…                              
Just as much as God is my bigot-Stan.      
Everybody is my only friend.                              
Oh well, here we go again…                              
                               
Receiving fan letters that rate my past hate and passed trials,                              
i’d rather crawl through broken glass with my dick out for 8 miles.                              
                               
Hailie! Does the family still hate me?      
If not, maybe I can try harder so they will      
cause lately I’ve been feeling too comfortable      
in the midst of all so I took my ball in hope to enrage them all.                              
                               
I know, it looks like my hair’s gone gray. See?  
                         
I like to tackle myself in a mosh-pit.      
Have to find a place to deposit all this rage.      
Guess I’m filling up my closet.                              
Pass me 40’s till I’m passed out on the stage.      
I pass more liquid than a faucet.                              
                               
I’m an analytic cryptic. Hardly worth your time de-cyphering.                                
Your bets are nitpicked.                              
                               
Y’all real ape fools coming after me marching.      
These doggs are jealous cause they hear that I’m bar-king.                              
                               
I found myself like you haven’t in music.      
Astound myself like you have through abusing      
yourself by copping a round of your choosing      
while losing count of records like Bruce Spring      
steen so lean and clean on coverall schemes.      
But barely afraid of covered up fiends.    
                       
I mean to…                              
be nice.    
                            
I tend to…                              
be not.                              
                               
By a lot.                              
     
It seems I got,                              
a problem.
                    
For which I not                              
care a lot.                              
                               
Honestly I’d also rather be fond of me but      
modesty has logically prevented me.                              
                               
As you can all see…                              
                               
I’m a prodigy that was never meant to be.