#fredrick tipton

[6i]

[rapispoetry]

BFK, a poem by  Fredrick Tipton

BFK A poem* by Fredrick Tipton (b. 1982; Gary, IN)

G.I. niggas stay bout it Take a nigga life don’t doubt it Church and the liquor store crowded 911 is a joke don’t dial it

We ain't really tripping when the money stay pilin’ Money comin’ slow then mothafuckas get violent I just want a crib and a coupe low mileage Blowing on some dope with a yellow-bone stallion

So high, and niggas wanna know why I, ride With semi-automatic by my, side ‘Cause I got niggas comin’ at my head But I won’t let them bitches stop my bread

A mothafucka wanna short my dough I hit him twice with the black fo-fo The witness courtroom no-show And what a nigga don’t know won’t go

‘Dro hoes and the dope game made me On the front page magazine no label Industry don’t want him cause the nigga’s too gangsta Probably never heard him on ya radio station

Way too thug for these mothafuckin’ rappers Rap way better than ya neighborhood trapper Man came down on the uppity bitch I be fuckin' the bitch let my niggas smash right after

Dope in the kitchen gotta get it stretchin' and whippin' Know some niggas that slippin’, we can hit a lick if you with it Then I ship and deliver, I ain’t took a trip in a minute Now I’m in the position, I can give it to my lieutenant

Need a mothafucka robbed, I’m the nigga for the job Peace to the Slammin' and the 5-Trey Mob What you know about that life in the mask Them Gary, Indiana niggas gift wrap ya casket How ya love that?

East side niggas stay bout it West side niggas stay bout it North side niggas stay bout it South side niggas stay bout it bout it

Yea I ain’t got time for these bitches Ain’t gotta dime for these bitches Breakin' it down for 3 bitches Duffle stuffed with three 6’s

Heat under the pillow I sleep with my missus And I’m havin' dreams that’s bigger than 6 digits Niggas where I rest possessed to whip chickens Livin' on ya dick til ya hit the next shipment

So high, and niggas wanna know why I, ride With semi-automatic by my, side I need a nigga that’s for sure gon' bust And really I’m the only nigga I, trust

And really I'm the only nigga that, cold New shoes, Cadillac on vogues, Shine for the dimes and the rat, hoes Check a pack, write a rap, crack, sold

And my trunk leave cracks in the pavement Chevy only carry heavy weight, Lord save 'em Just another victim of the game can you blame ‘em And he stay paid, can’t a lame nigga fade 'em

And most of you niggas in the rap game dick blowers But at the end of the day they don't get shit for it But me and mine’s gotta eat, so I’m beatin’ up the street Dinner time man I gotta hit a lick for it

Send ‘em to God, tryna rob the godfather And if you scared of catchin’ a murder then why bother I’m peelin' off a knock for pots of hot water Niggas wrote me off and it made me grind harder

Peace to the East, nigga peace to the chief Got a slug for the judge bringin' heat for police And a book full of sins that I reap when I sleep Then I wake up and I put ‘em on a beat, how you love that?

*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Tipton’s professional name, Freddie Gibbs. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.