Bread Winner

by ILLingsworth

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03:44

about

Name your price, even zero. I won't get mad. Shit, I gotta big ass loaf of bread.

Watch all the Bread Winner videos here: bit.ly/zPBJmg

What do you win when you become an independent musician? Answer: You win the right to eat bread, for every meal. Hence, Doc Illingsworth is The Bread Winner.

Long story short, I've been pussyfooting around about this rapping for a long time....until I decided that I'd pussyfoot no more. I left job-security for the uncertainty of my independent musician-hood. I've made a lot of dumb decisions in my life, and a few of them helped me to complete this material, and a lot of other material that you've yet to hear. I hope you join me on this ride, because it ain't over.

Bottom line, if you have a passion, go after it, fiercely and honestly. It's never ever ever too late. Unless you're dead. You can probably forget about it then.

Many thanks to all my homies and internet supporters. Waaaaay too many to name here....thanks to my brohorts, Detroit CYDI (Ruf J, Sean Uppercut), Stryfe, J Matt, Das, Scoop. We're old. lol.

Shout out to Hubert Sawyers for helping me realize what I needed to do. I'm grateful. Shout out to Charles and Dave for helping me with so many opportunities. If I remember some more people later that I think deserve special thanks, I'm just gonna come back here and hit the edit button lol.

I never would have been able to get to this done without Mom, Dad, Jason, Brie, and Brandi. Thanks to you all. Anybody that I left out, I love you more than the people who were named here. Yes, I love you more than my blood-family, and my girlfriend. I am a dummy.

Twitter: twitter.com/illingsworth
Tumblr: random.illingsworks.com
FB: www.facebook.com/illingsworks
YouTube: youtube.com/pimpinstein5

You can hit up illingsworks.com if you want to join my mailing list.

credits

released March 1, 2012

Written and Produced by Doc ILLingsworth of Detroit CYDI.
Original cover photo taken by Jason Matthews. The final photo features the horrible Photoshop un-skills of Doc ILLingsworth.
No bread was harmed in the making of this album.

tags

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all rights reserved

about

ILLingsworth Detroit

EMCEE + PRODUCER

stuff i make = music with @rufiojones @seanuppercut and @stryfeD, beats, raps, videos.
born & bred resident of Detroit.
smooth due to alopecia.

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Track Name: Bread Winner
The pin's off the grenade
rhymes jump off of the page
open the jaws and what sprays
has all amazed

who thought to engage
and lost, crossed enough to froth at the face and
blow their heads off witta gauge
'til soft grey

particles mist
like aerosol, it's, the mission
to bury all fairy dolls who lack
the wherewithal to call in n quit

tossed in a pit, spit burn through walls
'til it fall in your shit and turn it to saucy broth
sorry, I lost it a bit

I'm back rational, raps that a fool
let out of his data tube lacked aptitude
to be passable as apt fuel

so I shattered him, spat at
the cracked pattern of his badly abused
ashes
pass me a broom

gather the trash in a zoom
bag it and soon I'll be
havin' Labatts, at the saloon

slapping the backs of my goons like
"what's happening?", the status'll hafta balloon
say you the baddest, you more like salad cabbage
legumes

radishes, rotten apples, satchels of glass
bottles, aluminum cans, and other crap
I'd rather not have or consume

flow's designed to sever control of your mind
until you go savage and have to be fed xanac in food

and trapped in a padded room with
blue sadness and alabaster hues, This rapper's rude
but still hasn't yet cracked the cocoon

You lookin' at a Bread Winner X3
What's for dinner? You lookin' at a Bread Winner
Track Name: Trick Dice
Enjoy a self inflicted "Vulcan Shocker"
live long and prosper and do so with honor

but don't expect these prowlers with katanas to sponsor
(we're) too busy vexing karma to worry 'bout Beyonders

Sitting in a lawn chair, conjuring lava, Ala Kazam
slam you on spikes, then dip in a Honda

fitted with rocket launcher that only fires boxes of condoms
laminate your johnsons

'cause any offspring calling your father is fodder,
I'm Darth Vader in gators, you're ice skaters in otter

facial expressions are lookin bothered at your concerts
claiming that you got work, your weight needs spotters

on my collarbones are the mass of the throne
and I'm draped in australian koala fur, proper

philosophers, sit back and chit chat
I'm in the world, trying to remix facts to get stacks, Holler

Chorus x 2
I'm skating on thin ice
flying with broken wings
and rollin wit trick dice

I'm making that big heist
gripping God's coat tails
making 'em flip twice

You can catch me pissin in the aquifer
your mama lookin like Chewbacca mixed with Gossamer
you feel popular

'cause a Twitter follower swallowed ya
giving you gonorrhea and cholera
now wallow with the commoners

monkey ass rappers need to change zip codes,
underwear, and shitty monikers
and get a new plan from guidance counselors

and follow ups, catch me in the parking lot
fondling a model, windows fogging up,
cheers

tall dark beers, you cloggin up ears with your hogwash
resembling a wizard from hogwarts

stalwarts think it's all mapped out,
get your heart snatched out then passed 'round
wrong fork-prong on the map route

raw short songs when I black out
concussive forces, crush it snort it, record it

reported, live from the barracks
mac 'n' cheese, chicken, and spare ribs
marvel at the cut of the rare jib

Chorus
Track Name: Houston Rockets
What imposters do, is say blood is thicker than water
when they crossing you
it's the cool, the irony is lost on you

Just seen my dad in the muthafuckin' hospital
so I don't see rappers, just muthafuckin' obstacles

Ain't gotta climb 'em , height of an iron giant,
you're like a dying appliance, one to be silenced with tridents

Thinking up clever shit, sitting on the shitter
woulda been dope, but after I flushed, couldn't remember

Gotta make it entertaining, this other shit feels wrong
no is not the answer, "still standing, still strong"

I will abuse the music, it's mostly theraputic
don't get Puffy, you did a worse job than Derek Luke did

Chilling on the steps while my nigga Mal smoke's squares
laughing at these swag cats, all they do is blow air

If you think I'm talknig bout you, yes I'm probably talking 'bout you
go and make some dope shit, enjoy the world all around you

It's so beautiful, stop being so fucking doubtful
you rather be menopausal and let your tears drown you

Wanna-be moguls, sounding more like mongrels
consider council or throwing in a towel quick pronto

(Verse 2)

Mind you busy-body business
mine is to drop ridiculous on idiots
whose lyrics have a poor user-experience

Four-course meals for your chick
no dinner-mints if she's on her period
then chill that shit

Recipient of winnings
fine breads and birds with all trimmings
I'll cut you out the story like newspaper clippings

Scuffed Nikes, fuck who don't like me
fuck who do like me, pullin' voodoo on your psyche

Doodoo on your life, B
much bigger percentage of the pie-piece at my feast
so go repo your life-lease

I'm playing way up to my shallow side
dive in, crack your dome, now you're floating
face down

If you live, paralyzed, waist down
money, I'mma chase down
stomp this nigga out, pull the drapes down

Ayo, crush the grapes now
bitches on my dick 'cause they think I'm getting
papes now

But it's all illusion
and there's no inclusion
she said my dick reminded her of rockets out
in Houston
Track Name: ON
WATCH THE VIDEO FIRST http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_UuOVmcLGA

No matter what tumultuous tale
I’m not constructed to fail
no opposition is enough to derail

a half-man nearly-half optimus prime
a dash of octopus and oncologist, concocting a rhyme

like chemotherapy, there he go
shattering unbearable terrible
rap scarecrows in stereo

preparing my assaults, police sequester him
it’s like staring at vault
you’re in the mirror, livid
as you’re

staring at your faults
and I’m a vampiric killer
illin’ for results, and really all I’m hearing is your pulse

rappers wanna sulk, watch me rip em into mulch
or whip 'em into pulp

or dismember 'em with wizardry that was simply gifted to me from the occult
insults added to injuries so sick that if you’re squeamish
you’ll convulse

clowns copy like onomatopoeias
I could pop em with heaters
until they're dropping liters

and disappear, be on the run like diarrhea
you ain’t make the grade, now you wanna cry to teacher

when I supply the ethers, rappers will try to rhyme with me
but I'll deny the features, they burning like gonorrhea's

Chorus

I wanna be supportive
but as far as recording
they should shorten it
mission aborted

escorted by some horsemen with 4-4s
who'll have you folded like contortionists
after a barrel's in your oral orifice

that's how they get forced to quit
forfeited the glorious title of victorious
to vocalists

more accustomed to running with the warriors
son, you'll get shunned like portly kids
I can assure you, you'll be sorely missed

I send disses like missiles outta pens and pencils
these infidels been beneath me like an insole

your chick is out to get chose, by them same dudes
in the movies wearing pimp clothes
suits six different tones dipped in gold

find my lyric prose embossed on a tablet
in temple at the end of a mysterious road

if you're curious then get in the know
and commit to the now, 'cause it's on
Track Name: Pancakes (Dirty)
Pancakes, nigga, pancakes x 4

Flour, baking powder, salt, milk, sugar, don't for get the sugar, bitch

Eggs, eggs, mad fuckin' eggs x2

Melted butter x 8

Repeat