"M.C. Whatever"
A fable from the Council of Doom
beat by Deeper Era Productions

Yo, let me stop making sense like I was David Byrne
It's my time to shine so you can wait your turn
I saw your Momma walking with that tasteless perm
Complaining to your Pops you was a waste of sperm
I'm 'a make you an example like your name was Caecilius
You think you rhyme super when you rhyme supercilious
I rhyme poetical; you rhyme pathetical
On the hypothetical, let's say you met a girl
And said, "Hi, my name's Whatever", and she be like "Who?"
But all the girlies know about the Aryan Jew 
The fact is you ain't blazin, your style's barely luke-warm
Heard your four-line guest rhyme, and sure enough, true-to-form
You couldn't hold a beat, but you could mention weed and bitches
The "G" must stand for generic, you're too big for your britches
Put your record on the phonograph-kid you make me wanna laugh
Quit practicing your autograph, start working on your epitaph
In memory of an MC named Whatever
Died from complications of thinking he was clever
Tried to represent, didn't know what it meant
Got schooled by a white boy and died of embarrassment.

Just throw your hands in the air for "Whatever"
You thought you'd be millionaire, like forever
When asked, "Would you sell out, kid?" You said, "Never"
Now you're waitin' at the soup kitchen, MC Whatever

You step to the mic, thinkin' you got skills
But if you step to Mike, step to a brother who kills
Theoretically and eremetically
Mostly keeping to himself, but now he's killin' medically
He'll be takin' out your kidneys with a scalpel
All because you couldn't rhyme a mouthful
Your Escalade is played and your ice is meltin'
Remember how it felt when your records was sellin'?
By now, you've been reduced to obscurity
Of mediocrity, you're the authority
You can't talk with me, you fell off o' TRL
The number two video, does that ring a bell?
Now it's the number two bus, you can't bust in the park
You catch a cap in your own hood, you're just a mark
Where's the fame, where's the glitter, where's the glory?
You're a one hit wonder: we all know the story.
It's been sold and told and rolled on VH1
How you were screwed and viewed as the Prodigal Son
When you tried to go back to your old label
Well, now it's time to eat crow like in the fable.

Just throw your hands in the air for "Whatever"
You thought you'd be millionaire, like forever
When asked, "Would you sell out, kid?" You said, "Never"
Now you're waitin' at the soup kitchen, MC Whatever

Seen you last week in line at the A&P
Tryin' to buy beer with your W.I.C.
The cashier was like, / "I'm sorry, Mr. Whatever...
Whatever Ever? What Ever Ever?" /
"That's right," / you said, / "I'm MC Whatever" /
"Damn, my older sister thought they found you in a river!"
That's right you went from wax to whack /
Picked you up and scanned the barcode stuck on your back
And the screen said like "ten cents to the pound"
From the Nice Price basket at the Record Town /
They got you up in the bin, like with Barry Manilow
Opened up a can o' ho to get that R&Ber flow
But now you know that don't go that you be "Buggin Out" /
So do the right thing, son, and just shut your mouth
It's sad to hear you lampin' on platinum and TEC-9's /
I write the Writer's Guild when I gotta protect mine
So, kid, step outta line and let a real MC through /
Like the mickety-Mad Sheep or the Aryan Jew
My record ain't gold, but at least I'm saying something/
You got Cinderella skills, your Bentley turned into pumpkin.

Just throw your hands in the air for "Whatever"
You thought you'd be millionaire, like forever
When asked, "Would you sell out, kid?" You said, "Never"
Now you're waitin' at the soup kitchen, MC Whatever

return to the Doom


2002 Seafood Cheeselog Trio