Why are the lyrics to hiphop sleeping?
Dreams turnt to nightmares.
Why is the mic hanging, weeping?
Is it, screaming, waking up to night terrs’?
Damm! I rememba’ so simple then.
Like a sigh of an Emcee’s relief.
The beat to her heart was so Zen.
Now, its more like gutter street.
Its like hiphop’s heart is trying to revive.
From funk, to trap, to confusing lyrics.
Its trying to borrow time, just to survive.
Went From pride to a broken spirit.
If it just tried to make a comeback
Remembering where it came from
When broken burroughs needed slack
From the oppression, that would hang em.
They claimed it was the harder times.
That made them create a beat.
Theyd dance, sing, rap, and rhyme,
Pull out cardboards to the street.
Its just like when Erin’s Harp lost its pride.
The Irish forced to abandon history.
But their true roots they could not hide.
Their inner harp played, through their misery.
Ya see, they found it, though twas buried.
Was meant to even die,
but resurrected, momentarily.
Just enough to add twinkle to their eyes.
So, you too emcee, need to remember.
Though tears fall from your speakers.
You said youd be back in November,
But its only looking bleeker.
Stuck on a writers block?
Look for the inspiration.
You can hear it in the shot of a glock.
Or in the social class segregation.
Its in the eyes of a grieving mother’s woas.
Her two sons shot down.
Its in the broken impoverished homes.
That you see around town.
Even if like Erin’s harp.
What only comes out is depression,
At least you release it from your heart.
Relieving pressure from the repression.
Even though, theyve taken over hip-hop
Those Record labels eradicating your intentions.
It’s time to revolt..fists up..put to a stop.
After all, you were the creator of this invention.
The Irish “survived their Freedom’s vital blow”
Its just the same with you.
This defeat is something you cant let go.
You promised your hoods youd be true.
Now, your story is even much more deep.
So much lyrics to express.
Overflowing, even beginning to seep.
Your delivery will be a success.
Youll raise the chins of the depressed.
Brings smiles to kids with no hope.
Black, Chicano, Asian’ will be impressed.
Putting down the pipe and dope.
So, pick up the mic, that lay there hung.
Drop a sick-with-it beat.
“Erin Go brach, he boldly sung”
You, too, can bring life back to your streets.
*I decided to create lyrical barse parodying that of “Why Sleeps the Harp of Erin’s Pride” by Sydney Owenson in order to create an understanding in regards to a culture that has gotten lost and appropriated by commercialization and artistic consumption. Like the loss of the Harp, by the Irish, the true essence of hiphop amidst the general population has been in a comatose state too. The origination of hiphop began in New York in the 1970’s and consisted of several elements: emceeing, DJing, breaking, and Graffiti. Its purpose grew from the oppression that the most poor boroughs of New York were suffering through -mostly consisting of blacks and latinos. They were starved of good education, access to healthy food, and a structured environment due to the zone’s severe neglect. Then one day the neighborhood kids and folks made something out of nothing, and began putting together functions on the streets to speak on that repression and suffering, hence hip-hop. But just like the Irish pride and culture, it has been forced to assimilate into a pop culture, being appropriated by major industries whom only want to profit off of the desperate artists whom are willing to sell their souls and mass produce music with zero intentions to raise awareness to social issues. However, as mentioned in Owenson’s poem, “for still he sung the ills that flow,” meaning that despite the oppression, the Irish tried their best to keep their culture alive; similarly, there are those that still emcee with pride. They are known as underground artists. They are continuing to spread the essence of hiphop, though theres been an attempt at it being buried, just like the Irish had to struggle through.