It’s either rap or sell dope, those the choices I got
But any way you wanna put it, I still get harassed by the cops
I can’t stand on the blocks and let them win this game
But since 1863, ain’t shit really change
And they got a new name, mark out the Ku Klux Klan
With the police whooping more ass than Mike yson hands
I’m just a young black man who fits the description of all
And they’d rather take it from me than see a young brother ball
I’m screaming fuck all of y’all, from your laws to the taxes
Who built this country from the ground up? My people put us on the atlas
Using us for target practice, send the young to the woods
They say we all sell dope, but George Bush got the goods
In all cities and hoods, shit, it’s a billion-dollar business
And politicians get the snow, so every day’s a white Christmas
Senseless money spent on war, fuck a cure for AIDS
They’d rather have me in the woods searching for Saddam for days
But hey, shit done changed since 9/11
Now they realize what they do in other countries ain’t fun
Air strikes by the ton in these third-world places
So when judgement day hits, I hope they get God’s graces
- Vito G, vitogagc@yahoo.com, “They Don’t Care”

This the beginning of the end
And the vibe so live I can feel it in my pen
So I scribe and scribe and scribble it again
Dot my I’s, rise and spit a rhythm
I’m a wordsmith, my adjectives and verbs lift
Off the paper and blaze ya in cursive
Now Merc is the worst with the verses
This is a birth gift, you can’t rehearse this
This can’t be purchased or duplicated
Now you debating on who’s the greatest
But you’re argument’s irrelevant
You’ve yet to observe or see, Mercury, the 80th element
You tried to be a rapper but your rhymes wasn’t ill enough
Tried to be a dealer but yo’ dimes wasn’t big enough
Tried to be a Heavy Hitter but you couldn’t spin so tough
Tried to be a killer but you ain’t grimy or real enough
Then you got the audacity to say you ain’t feelin’ us?
Man, we all varsity, y’all rooks ain’t run the drills enough
With the AIDS virus y’all dudes wouldn’t be ill enough
The booth’s on fire, yo Livewire, finish up
- LRC, LRC1@valenciacc.edu

I seen my step-pops get hooked on that same shit
That my dogs on the block use to pitch and make they change with
I look in my momma’s eyes and see a woman ready to lie down and die
You can either lie down and cry
Or come out swingin’
That’s one of the main reasons for all the fire I’m bringing
The other reason is the two brand new mouths I gotta be feeding
Whether it’s hot outside or 30 below freezing
So I ain’t got time for keeping up with the Joneses
In the lab honing my craft, the flow’s ferocious
Mix in some magic, hocus pocus
And you’ve got yourself a Universal Soldier
One that don’t bite his tongue for no one
And spits verses that pack the blast of a double-barrel shotgun
Props I got some, albeit just a little
And I ain’t urban or suburban, man, I’m stuck in the middle
- Crack J, cjack12003@yahoo.com, “Hard Roads”


I say fuck the police, that’s how I treat ‘em
We buy our way out of jail, but we can’t buy freedom
We’ll buy a lot of clothes when we don’t really need ‘em
Things we buy to cover up what’s inside
‘Cause they make us hate ourselves and love they wealth
That’s why shorties hollerin’ “Where the ballas at?”
Drug dealers buy Jordans, crackheads buy crack
And a white man get paid off of all of that
But I ain’t even gon’ act holier-than-thou
Cause fuck it, I went to Jacob with 25 thou
Before I had a house and I’d do it again
‘Cause I wanna be on 106th & Park pushing a Benz
I wanna act ballerific like it’s all terrific
I got a couple past due bills, I won’t get specific
I got a problem with spending before I get it
We all self-conscious, I’m just the first to admit it
- Kanye West, “All Falls Down” (“College Dropout”)

Jigga really needs to stop hatin’ on Sean
Y’all share the same name, can’t we all get along?
Like Rodney and Reginald Denny
Yeah, Beyonce’s a dime, Hov, she’s far from a penny
But just sip on some Henny, roll a Blueberry Sky
You already got the girl, quit ruining guy
Makin’ all these public boasts and public toasts
‘Cause the flyest bitch in the game is hugging your throat
Quit tuggin’ that boat, brush the dirt off your shoulders
You’re the lucky guy that she’s wanting to hold her
Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little island lingo
Dexter from Jamaica and his mile-long mandingo
C’mon big pimpin’, thought you represent the ‘hood?
Well, just recognize game and it’s all good
There’s no need for you to lose your britches, son
You’ve got 99 problems and a bitch ain’t one (yet)!
- D Scribe, d_scribe@blackplanet.com, “100 Problems”

As soon as the bell sounds, I make a punching bag out of my competition
Not to be omniscient, but nine out of ten times their rhymes are not efficient
In mic combat applause holds the top position
Shadow boxin’ opposition, throwin’ hooks and punches at opponents non-existent
Hip-hop is just a hobby, I’m a professional in dick-dealing
By the end of this evening I intend to have your bitch screaming
My numerous nationalities allow her to experience true mixed feelings
In this game I’ll spare no lives, applause is here to reign
MCs are like bowling pins, easily with one strike they get removed from the game
Keep it gutter, applause you’re the greatest
I speak to myself in the third person to be addressesed as first
The high exhaulted epitome of MCs in the OZONE, illest mag on earth
Never in your life will you encounter a better verse
If you don’t think I get dirty, you’re sadly mistaken
I’m a Souf nigga with rock spots like blood clot patients
In their death bed waitin’ for Satan, savoring every last breath they takin’
With your permission I could put my mind to good use and recruit for your coalition
I gives a “what” how ill you are, even the whackest MC can fit the position
- Event, niccahrean@hotmail.com


Email your 16 bars to
JB@OZONEMAG.COM for consideration.