Most raps are written in first person. Many rappers are most comfortable with writing stories using the "I" point of view. However I wish that more would spit in third person. As a narrator/author it gives more freedom and flexibility to tell a story because you are not bound to using yourself as part of the action.
Additionally, I have always felt that first person raps force some rappers to pretend that their rhymes are actual true personal narratives. Giving some separation between the art, and the artist depersonalizes it and allows you to go in more directions.
Anyway read while listening.
Villain'll hold the mic like he's mean and his tummy hurt
In a clean pair, ripped jeans and a bummy shirt
Wonderin would you clap your hands if he was friendly
Dapper Dan dipped in pretend to be Fendi
and gold sellin
No tellin
slap a fan hand down, tell 'em "no yellin"
DOOM- all capitals, no trick spellin
Got what it take to get it through your thick melon
(Woopwoosh!) Fresh witty city skits
When he get wreck, pretty emcees catch titty fits
Told them call the cops, just don't hold your breath for the ball to drop
Better yet, hold on to your halter top
Kept reppin, steppin in hotta
Ignoring pigs like Bigs Top Shotta
Surviver of a live crew, not out to jive you
It stings when he laugh when he at the bank drive-thru
Wylin', get me every red penny
Sold a lonely only child an imaginary enemy
When he sees the mask and the microphone gizmo
He's the broke host this is like his own quiz show
This go out to all my brothers doin long bids and sisters
Who got brothers bein fathers to the wrong kids
Stay strong and ride like the funky flute
Won't find the Villain in the street inside no monkey suit
Or either at the bar in no gorilly bra
Nor raceway park scoring on no silly car
Ask the stranger he knows who you really are
Behind the mask face stay dark, no boring willy star
Gleaming, dreaming, screaming- he'll be off the heezy soon
Cunning live rats drive at your steaming greasy spoon
In participating places tip your waitress'
A sure fire way to wire, trip the matrices
Skip ya laces, all black tennis miniature
Ball stack, gall tall pack, Guinness minister
Tussle the hustle, cut your dank with dirt
Won't be in the club in a muscle tank shirt
You could find 'em in the pub with the grub stain
Chuggin on a small tub of pain to his bugged brain
Sane, some say he plum crazy
Amazed at how he still get paid but dumb lazy
That's for him to know and for you to guess
Won't be caught in a suit vest at no computer desk
A suede front, maybe may stunt khaki dig
Not in no braids or no lace-front yaki wig
