Friday, February 4, 2011

Too Big To Fail

Chicago was hit by a blizzard this week, and most of us here in the city were snowed in on Wednesday. I spent part of the day shoveling and part of the day cranking out a song.

I know there's minimal demand for middle-aged white rappers with law degrees, but because I'm not hustling clubs for a cover charge, I don't sweat the realities of the marketplace. On the plus side, I've never had to spend quality time on a hotel balcony with Suge Knight.

I'll blame the following two minutes and fifty-two seconds on my having spent too much time (a) studying Chicago politics and (b) spinning Eric B. & Rakim records in the 1980s. (Apologies in advance to the great Rakim.)

Too Big To Fail
(M. Farmer)

I got a call last spring from Good King Rich
He said the time had come for him to make a switch
He said, “Rahm, you’ve always been my boy”
I said, “Rich, you’ve always been my goy”
Then he started talkin’ about his plan
To slip on out and make me the man
He said, “Here’s the teflon; you’re gonna be a great Don --
Do the dance like my very own Black Swan”
Then I said, “I will prevail --
I got Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail”

Then I let it be known that I was back in Chi-Town
Measuring drapes and getting ready to throw down
And just like that the field cleared
The wannabes all disappeared
I got rock star money; I can buy my own island
My family wants Thai food, I take ‘em to Thailand
Stay off of my court; I’m playing a blood sport
Whaddup, Winnetka? Bye-bye Bridgeport
No need to vote; I will prevail
I got Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail

Then I hit the streets with my top adviser
The guy in charge of my hand sanitizer
I smile and wish all the people well
Shake some hands and then get my Purell
They say I’m out of touch with the working man
With my thousand dollar suits and my year-round tan
I say spare me the rap about that neighborhood crap
Garfield Park is just a place on a map
You wanna play ball, put a check in the mail
I got Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail

Public schools, hah, I don’t need ‘em
Parking meters, lord, I don’t feed ‘em
My big-money crew is gonna rock the downtown
And throw a few bones to the black and the brown
Kiss up to all the right preachers
Send dead fish to the union teachers
Bringin’ it non-stop; rockin’ the hip-hop
Did I mention that my uncle was a city cop?
Mess with me and you touch the third rail
With my Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail