Lyrics
(Yo)
MF DOOM
Mr. Fantastik
Mr. Fantastik
Villain
(What up, nigga?
(Ain’t nothin’, what’s the word?)
(What’s cracking, boy?)
(Same ol’ shit, kid)
(Man)
(Different day, you know?)
(These rap snitches, man, shit is bugged out, man)
(What the fuck, man?)
(Shit, you telling me)
(Niggas running their mouth, telling everything, everything)
(Critical)
Rap snitches, telling all their business
Sit in the court and be their own star witness
Do you see the perpetrator? Yeah, I’m right here
Fuck around, get the whole label sent up for years, uh
Rap snitches, telling all their business
Sit in the court and be their own star witness
Do you see the perpetrator? Yeah, I’m right here
Fuck around, get the whole label sent up for years
Type profile low, like A in Paid in Full
Attract heavy cash ’cause the game’s centrifugal
Mister Fantastik, long dough like elastic
Guard my life with twin Glocks that’s made out of plastic
Can’t stand a brown nosing nigga fake ass bastard
Admiring my style, tour bus through Manhattan
Plotting, plan the quickest, my flow’s the sickest
My hoes be the thickest, my dro the stickiest
Street nigga, stamped and bonafide
When beef jump niggas come get me ’cause they know I ride
True to the ski mask, New York’s my origin
Play a fake gangsta like a old accordion
According to him, when the D’s rushed in
Complication from the wire testimony was thin
Caused his man to go up north, the ball hit ’em again
Lame rap snitch nigga even told on the Mexican
Rap snitches, telling all their business
Sit in the court and be their own star witness
Do you see the perpetrator? Yeah, I’m right here
Fuck around, get the whole label sent up for years
Rap snitches, telling all their business
Sit in the court and be their own star witness
Do you see the perpetrator? Yeah, I’m right here
Fuck around, get the whole label sent up for years
True, there’s rules to this shit, fools dare care
Everybody wanna rule the world with Tears For Fear
Yeah, yeah tell ’em, tell it on the mountain hill
Running up they mouth bill, everybody doubting still
Informer, keep it up and get tested
Pop through the bubble vest or double breasted
He keep a lab down south in the little beast
So much heat you woulda thought it was the Middle East
A little grease always keeps the wheels a spinning
Like sitting on twenty threes to get the squealers grinning
Hitting on many trees, feel real linen
Spitting on enemies, get the steel for tin men
Where no brains but gum flap
He said his gun clap, then he fled after one slap
Son shut your trap, save it for the bitches
Mm, delicious, rap snitch knishes
(You know what I’m saying?)
(It’s terrible)
(Crazy, man, I’m just analyzing this whole game)
(This is bugged out, man, niggas is snitching)
(Telling on they own self)
(It’s a horror, yo)
(Fuck around and get everybody bagged, man)
(Atrocities)
(Fuck around and get yo mama bagged, nigga)
(You know your grandmama used to be bootlegging)
(Fake hustling, nigga)
(Perpetrator?)
(Yeah, I’m right here)
In the labyrinthine corridors of hip-hop’s Pantheon, a select few tracks echo with the gravitas of mythic tales, their bars woven with cautionary threads meant for those who dare to navigate the genre’s treacherous waters. ‘Rapp Snitch Knishes’ by the enigmatic MF DOOM featuring Mr. Fantastik stands as one of these fabled odes – an intricate tapestry depicting the age-old saga of betrayal, with the contemporary stage set in the courtrooms and streets of rap’s empire.
DOOM, a master of metaphor and the masked face of lyrical complexity, joined forces with the reclusive Mr. Fantastik to confront an issue as ancient as storytelling itself: snitching. With each verse, they bring to life the dichotomy of a culture that reveres authenticity and survival while battling the hydra-headed monster of self-incrimination. It’s a track that demands an excavation beneath its surface choppiness, to the deeper currents of meaning swirling below.
The Villainous View on Verbal Betrayal
The song opens with casual banter between DOOM and Mr. Fantastik, almost like seasoned street philosophers mulling over the state of the rap game. However, their conversation quickly turns to ‘Rap snitches’ – those who divulge personal or incriminating information within their lyrics or to authorities. DOOM critiques this phenomenon not purely from a moral standpoint, but also as a strategic folly within the game of survival in the hip-hop industry.
It’s an ironic twist of fate, where verses meant to amplify reputation lead to a downfall. The pair outlines the irony of rappers playing both the lead role in their self-penned dramas and the unwitting informant leading the charge against themselves. It’s a self-authored Greek tragedy wherein the tell-all nature of some rappers is likened to self-sabotage, an act as foolhardy as it is fateful.
