The Perfect Verse (Mikrofonmordet)

Det nördiga inlägget.

De flesta raplåtar har alltid något svagt rim eller något som får en att tänka att det är på en nivå så att man själv hade kunnat skriva de. Men sedan finns det så klart dem där klockrena verserna där verkligen allt stämmer. Dvs mina favoritverser. Här är några av dem.

Exhibit A

Nas vers på Mobb Deep’s låt "Eye For An Eye" är ett fint exempel på perfekt stream-of-concioussnes-rap. Fattar inte hur man lyckas få in så många feta rim och ändå vara så sparsam med orden. Han får Prodigy och Havoc att framstå som amatörer.



A drug dealer's dream
Stash CREAM keys on a triple beam
Five hundred SL green, ninety-five nickle gleam
Condominium, thug dressed like a gentleman
Tailor made ostrich, Chanel for my women friend
Murderin, numbers on your head while I'm burglarin
Shank is servin em, whassup to all my niggaz swervin in
New York metropolis, the Bridge brings apocalypse
Shoot at the clouds feels like, the holy beast is watchin us
Mad man my sanity is goin like an hourglass
Gun inside my bad hand I sliced tryin to bag grams
I got hoes that used to milk you
Niggaz who could've killed you
Is down with my ill crew of psychoes
Nas Escobar movin on your weak production
Pumpin corruption in the third world we just bustin

Exhibit B

Sticky Fingaz överglänsning av Eminem på "Remember Me" hör till de sjukaste jag hört. Tror aldrig jag hört någon flexa så mycket rapskills i en och samma vers på en gång.



Niggaz that take no for an answer, get told no
Yeah I been told no, but it was more like, "No, no, NO!!!"
Life a bitch; met her? fuck you if you let her
Better come better than better to be a competitor
This vet is ahead of,
The shit is all redder, you deader and deader
A medic instead-a the cheddars and credda
Settle vendetta one metal beretta from ghetto to ghetto
Evidence? NOPE! Never leave a shred-of
I got the soul of every rapper in me, love me or hate me
My moms got raped by the industry and made me
I'm the illest nigga ever, I told you
I get more pussy than them dyke bitches Total
Want beef, nigga? PBBBT! You better dead that shit
My name should be "Can't-Believe-That-Nigga-Said-Dat-Shit"
Probably sayin, "He ain't a killer", but I'm killin' myself
Smoke death, fuck bitches raw on the kitchen floor
So think what I'm-a do to you, have done to you
Got niggaz in my hood who'd do that shit for a blunt or two
What you wanna do, cocksuckers? We glock-busters
'Til the cops cuff us, we'll start ruckus and drop blockbusters
'Round the clock hustlers, you cannot touch us!
I'm gettin why is niggaz wantin' me dead? Wantin' my head?
You think it could be somethin' I said?

Exhibit C

Man orkar egentligen inte lyssna på Canibus längre än en låt eftersom det ofta är som att läsa ett medicinlexikon. Men hans vers på Common’s "Making A Name For Ourselves" är den perfekta skrytversen. Hade jag kunnat rappa hade jag ungefär velat låta så.



I'm creatin the ultimate verses with perfect lines
Puttin together them whether my rhyme one threat at a time
So you niggas need to stop testin me
Cuz you know you can't "F" with me
Steppin to me with insuperior weaponry
Exposin yourself to the verbal radiations
Sayin you can defeat me is nothin but speculation
Lyrics unravel, faster than bullets travel through barrels
Niggas be diggin my styles like fossils and pterodactyls
Who wanna battle?
I'm bad to the bone marrow
The Earth got one sun but I walk with three shadows
With Allah, my supernatural bodyguard
Niggas couldn't touch me if they gave me a massage
MCs will compete with lyrics and beats get crushed
I'll hit you in your chest so hard, your shoulders will touch
What!