XFactor by Professor A.L.I.


To be pimp is to floss, but it’s a facade/A definition that was born of pimpin’ hip-hop/To Pimp, is to signify materialism/But they pimp your material, that’s Pimperialism


The etymology of pimp, origin, Middle French/A scoundrel to be lynched, a wimp, and a snitch/In Swahili in the sixties, its impimpsi/Insensitivity to a symphony of sins (see)/Simply, dollar signs, ignore greater signs/The science behind the mind, slaves to life of crime/Remain blind, distracted by benny’s and vines/Attracted to potential, ‘cuz Betty’s a dime/Track heron in her veins; drive her insane/Rinsing her brain, to decipher her pain/Give her sniffs of cocaine, whip her with canes/And tire chains, till she’d serviced entire gangs/That’s game, game over, her life’s erased, a waste/Her own moms wouldn’t recognize her face/Open casket, she lays, dad’s a basket case/Another tragic fate, ‘cuz the devil had a taste


A baby devil is an imp, the p is purgatory/Shayateen’s tricknology, poses another story/Where status is predicated by human inventory/Runaways and shorties; stolen from dormitories /Knowledge of self, traded, for labels derogatory/Queens enslaved, and Kings lost like Robert Horry/So peep this allegory, its Sweet’s rundown /Ocelot on his lap, royalty uncrowned/He spits truth to an iceberg, about pimpin’/In this white mans world, he claimed to have flipped it/“The black woman’s raped already, since slavery/They oversee, pimpin’ your whole family/’supposebly’ free, one step from being hung on at tree/Learn they methods, get a pimpin degree and charge a fee/So we can be, where we ought to be”; slim dreams/Rich off beating women, till his momma screams


An invisible man, a man of substance, flesh and bone/Hip-Hop was subaltern, till that Sugarhill song/A scholarship awaits him, at a white mans club/Hip-Hop got into clubs, based off its buzz/First they objectify a woman, sexualize her form/Hip-Hop video vixens, and pimpin’ verses are born/They make him fight his brothers, physical display/Beef between artists, (the) Labels still get paid/They throw counterfeit currency on a carpet, targets/Contracts promise, but leave nothing for the artist/Electrified, they shriek, fried, they ask him to speak/Left weak; Hip-Hop, became pop in defeat/They censor his words, then menace him to compromise/Money’s a façade, an illusion to own your mind/All those bars about girls and cars, are hocus pocus/The invisible man, woke up, and then spoke up

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