WASABI, or An Ode to the Present State of Radio-Friendly Hip Hop in the Central Part of North America

[VERSE 1]

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Loitering in the work lobby is one of my favorite hobbies
My posse be Bobby and Robby and Favi and Javi and Rodney
Javi is Salvi, he rides in Mojave, Bobby’s got a Scottie and he speaks Punjabi
So sorry, I forgot to make copies and coffee so I got fired from jobby
I’m foxy, I cook on Hibachi, the old school I embody like I was Hitachi
Or back in the days of Atari approximately when computer disks were floppy
In Abu Dhabi, my money’s too wobbly, I’ll probably stop selling my body
Spun out my Ducati while racing Bugatti and watching Jumanji
Slid like ice hockey, rode the tsunami, next time I’ll get a Harley
I’m bobbin’, I’m mobbin’, I’m sobbin’, I’m robbin’, your mama’s a goblin
Hi-yo, Kemosabe, Have some Pocky and sake with Ken Watanabe

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Burn your tongue, man; we hot like tamales
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
We get our jollies from watching your follies

[VERSE 2]

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
I karate with Pilates hotties and oddly saw Paul Giamatti
Wore huaraches in Audis, I’m outtie with gaudy knock-kneed mommies
Polly pops Mollys in Raleigh with froggies and doggies and hoggies
Met Somalis in Mali, they said I was fobby and my back was too soppy
Boss said my first draft was sloppy and that my copy was choppy
So I drowned my sorrows in toffee and Yahtzi and beer that was hoppy
Returning this burger, this bun is too poppy and these fries are too soggy
Drinking Bacardi on tardy safaris, peaceful like Bob Marley and Mahatma Gandhi

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi

[VERSE 3]

When I first heard “Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace…”
I went kamikaze on Kawasaki canaverseray, and moved to Karachi
That song is ungodly, part of me knew it was written by no literati
Too simple, too raunchy, too tawdry, too tacky, motley like Liberace
Medulla oblongata got foggy and groggy, So sick, I need anitbodies
These dudes wreck the art, all sloppy and shoddy, like a boxy jalopy
All cocky, sayin’ poppycock worth less than tchotchkes and botched keys
All that moxie got them off track like a volley of derailed trolleys

Godspeed.

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Artists, aim high like Lockheed. Watch out for traps set by industry Cosbys
You’re too creative to be lazy, grind in lobbies like mariachis
Keep your shit tight, in sequence like your name’s Fibonacci

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi

March 25, 2016 | Categories: Uncategorized | 1 Comment