My Hillbilly Rap

My Hillbilly Rap

A Poem by casablancavic
"

It's rap yo'... Hillbilly style

"

Listen up Yo

When all the brothers

Be mackin and talkin trash

Bein all up in yor grill tellin lies

I’m gonna speak the truth

To all the ladies out there

Keeping it real

For all the fellas

Tradin some licks

For the chicks


I got money (yes I do)

I got cars (uh-huh)

I got b*****s (yeah I do)

I got scars (uh-huh)

I got flow (that’s right)

I got bling (alright)

I got rhymes (listen up)

But I can’t sing (uh-huh)






  • STEADY DROP BEAT - HEAVY BASS

Yo, I got this

Yeah, I got that

I eat food

That makes me fat

I got big bills

A real small house

It’s got a hole

Made by a mouse

I sit at home 

I ain't got a job

Wear 2 week old socks

Dress like a slob

I like to eat pizza

With lotsa cheese

I just dropped some food

Between my knees

Got me a hamster

In a glass tank

I ain’t got money

Up in the bank

I like to eat lobster

But ain’t got none

I always burn

When I'm in the sun

I go to beaches

But I can’t swim

Get checked for ID

When I watch a film

My TV still has rabbit ears

I stink so bad

Ain’t been washed in years

I'm trying hard 

To get my dues

Everyone tells me

"I'm bad news."

I always thought

I would be a singer

Everyone says I should

Be on Jerry Springer

I go to bed

A little after eight

But after nine

It’s far too late

Watch public TV

And play some games

With all my friends

Who don’t have names

I line up for my welfare check

It's just ten dollas

But what the heck

It gets me fries

And a Big Mac

If they return the change

I can buy a snack

There's a stuffed catfish

Hanging on my wall

The only prize

I ever won at all

I think I’m cool

I think I’m bad

But really baby…

I’m just sad

I’m pathetic

Yeah, I’m a joke

I’m just a loser

Without any hope

I’m gonna show you

How cool I am

But really baby…

I’m just a sham

I keep on frontin’

Til I’m in back

I’m really white

Pretendin’ to be black

I ain’t got rhythm

And I ain’t got style

No shiny gold grills

When I smile

I wear suspenders

On my pants

Jump up and down

When I dance

I'm 45 and I ain't got nookie

Broke my teeth eatin a cookie

I’m just a phony

I’m just a fake

I’m just a liar

I’m just a flake

Dropped out of high-school

Can’t even spell

Can barely read

It’s just as well

My money’s nickels

My car is rust

My ho is ugly

My bling is dust

I’m not a player

I’m not a pimp

I’m not a slayer

I’m just a gimp

My watch is Timex

My shoes ain’t Nikes

Ain’t got a yacht

I still ride a bike

Ain't got a Rolex

On my hand

My cousin Wilbur

Lives in a van

We go out times to hunt some game

I bring back skunks, it's just the same

Ain’t got champagne

Or a bottle of wine

Ain’t got Krystal

Ain’t even got the lime

I go to clubs

I stand in line

I pay the cover

I’ll wait all night

Up comes a limo

It's always the same

They walk inside

I'm in the rain

The DJ knows me

He see me there

But he don’t expose me

Cause he don’t care

Order two bottles

From the barkeep

The water here

Is really cheap

Come to my table

Sit at the back

By the washrooms

Near the dish rack

I’m counting dollas

But there’s just five

I’m really struggling

To stay alive

Ain’t got no six gun

Ain’t got a nine

Ain’t got nothing

That I can call mine

There’s nothing fancy

There’s no gold chains

There ain’t sunshine

It’s always rain

Ain’t got respect

Ain’t got a crew

Ain’t got a posse

Ain’t even got you

Ain’t got a queen

To treat me right

Ain’t got a baby

To hold me tight

I’m kinda old

And overweight

Can’t find a hooker

To get a date

I recycle cans

For fifty cents

Live in a shoe-box

I can’t pay my rent

Ain’t got an agent

Ain’t got no shows

Ain’t got any records

Or videos

I’m not on Youtube

Or MTV

People don’t even listen

When I play for free

I shop at Wal-mart

Sometimes at Sears

I’m a real big chicken

I got lots of fears

I’m not from Detroit

Or from L.A.

Not from the Bronx

Or from the Bay

I’m from the hills

Of Tennessee

My hood is full

Of hillbillies

My name ain’t Dre

Or Snoop or Ice

I ain’t a doctor

I’m white as rice

Just call me Billy

Just call me Ray

Just call me Cletus

Jimmy Jones Jay

I beg for pennies

Or for a smoke

I’m just a loser

I’m just a joke

Yeah every rapper

Is always a King

But listen baby

I’m the real thing

My rhymes are childish

My raps are real

But that is why

I’m the real deal

The old style gangstas

They got the beat

I can’t fit a rhyme here

That will sound sweet

It’s twenty oh seventeen

You think I’m cool?

I’ve neva been

Just got new clothes

From Sally Ann

I found them in

Their garbage can

I ain’t got dreds

Or even ink

Ain’t got a brain

Or so, I think

My pa, well he done

Disowned me true

He said “Son,

I’m leaving you.

I’m runnin off,

I’m leavin town.

Hope I never

See you around.”

He packed his bag

Then he was gone

Now I’m livin

On my own

My mama, well

She just split

Didn’t really give a sh!t

She up and leave

She don’t say why

Don’t even say

“Billy Ray, goodbye “

I’m almost done

Please don’t you go

I’m really trying

To pitch my flow

Just hold a minute

Don’t close your ears

Hey put down the gun

And I’ll disappear

Won’t you please

Stop hitting me?

Come on, you guys

Please let me be

I’m not that bad

Well, maybe I am

But I can rhyme

Like Green Eggs and Ham

I’m not a poet

I’m not a star

I’m not really anything

And I won’t get far

Ok, I’ll finish

I’m ending soon

But I just wanted

To play this tune

It won’t make millions

Won’t pay no bills

But I still know

How to give you chills

Not the good kind

Not like the ghosts

It’s a bad rap song

Nothing to boast

The song is over

The song is done

And you still stayed here

That means I won

…Peace out
Word to your mutha
Straight dope yo
Ya know what I’m sayin
Yeah, baby


Let’s take a sweet ride down the countryside 
In my 1974 Pinto
It’s got bucket seats and an AM radio
Just make sure there’s no other cars on the road honeychild
Don’t need this buggy catchin fire


Baby, we gonna make our own heat…yea hear what I’m sayin
I gots a bag of grass -I just picked up from the front yard
And sippin on 2 cans of diet soda…we all ready for cruisin under the stars
Down we be rollin before the tow trucks be towin

I’m outa here



© 2017 casablancavic



Author's Note

casablancavic
When every rapper under the sun got the perfect life...cash, gold, big houses, hot women, pricey cars, expensive jewelry, yachts, great food, big business deals, fancy clothes, movie contracts, impressive contacts, music deals and lots of fans.... the best of everything...

Their world is perfect, refined, and somebody we should all respect and want to emulate.

Well...
along comes BILLY RAY CLETUS JIMMY JONES JAY and this is his song.

My Review

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Reviews

+1 point for length.
Try harder next time if you'd like to rank though.

Posted 8 Months Ago


Some points of ridicule were a little overdone, but that may just be from reading. I'd like to hear it rapped aloud. Well done! It seemed to flow well and your phrasing was clear.

Posted 8 Months Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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133 Views
2 Reviews
Added on March 10, 2017
Last Updated on March 11, 2017

Author

casablancavic
casablancavic

Vancouver, Canada



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A Story by casablancavic