Kansas hip-hop
In the quest to discover new and exciting things to post to this blog in addition to the cards and weekly columns, esteemed reader and writer Don D. submitted his choice of “hip-hop-ifying classic rock songs.” Many times around these here parts we have interpreted hip-hop songs into the standard Caucasian vernacular, and that has been ... fun? Well, it has been for me. But Don’s idea got me intrigued as well. I have to admit I was skeptical at first, but I gave it a shot, and I remain skeptical.
There’s been discussion of, if this concept is well received and thus moves proudly into the future, posting simply the hip-hop version and having you, the reader, determine its classic rock origins in the comments for a prize of: cyber congratulations. So, please provide your feedback on that, if you will. For this week, however, there will be no reveal.
Also, a personal note: I truly dislike including curse words into this blog. Call me prudish, whatever, but like David Cross said on his comedy album filled with curse words, it’s lazy. And also offensive to many people. For this endeavor, however, it seemed near impossible not to, for humor’s sake, and so I allowed myself some creative license, although the words are blocked out with impossible-to-decipher symbols. My apologies.
And so, without further ado, the hip-hop version of Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son” …
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond the illusion
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say
Tryin’ to rise above all the chaos, see
Feels like I’m trippin’ on some LSD
Get so high, man, too high sometimes I think
Am I blind? Oh sh*t, that's just a blink
Insane in the brain they say, like Cyprus Hill
Had a dream, voice said, “It’s time to chill”
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say
Wear glasses so folks think I’m Lupe
Summertime, be swimming with a toupee
I say “knowledge of self;” what’s that sh*t even mean?
Swerving drunk up in this limousine
Or should I say a submarine
Winds of fortune got me trippin’, na’ mean?
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty
Surely heaven waits for you
So get on, son, and don’t forget
Those French chicks we met up in Quebec
That was dope, though left you worse for wear
Say ‘sup to Pac when you get there
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
There’s been discussion of, if this concept is well received and thus moves proudly into the future, posting simply the hip-hop version and having you, the reader, determine its classic rock origins in the comments for a prize of: cyber congratulations. So, please provide your feedback on that, if you will. For this week, however, there will be no reveal.
Also, a personal note: I truly dislike including curse words into this blog. Call me prudish, whatever, but like David Cross said on his comedy album filled with curse words, it’s lazy. And also offensive to many people. For this endeavor, however, it seemed near impossible not to, for humor’s sake, and so I allowed myself some creative license, although the words are blocked out with impossible-to-decipher symbols. My apologies.
And so, without further ado, the hip-hop version of Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son” …
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond the illusion
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say
Tryin’ to rise above all the chaos, see
Feels like I’m trippin’ on some LSD
Get so high, man, too high sometimes I think
Am I blind? Oh sh*t, that's just a blink
Insane in the brain they say, like Cyprus Hill
Had a dream, voice said, “It’s time to chill”
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say
Wear glasses so folks think I’m Lupe
Summertime, be swimming with a toupee
I say “knowledge of self;” what’s that sh*t even mean?
Swerving drunk up in this limousine
Or should I say a submarine
Winds of fortune got me trippin’, na’ mean?
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty
Surely heaven waits for you
So get on, son, and don’t forget
Those French chicks we met up in Quebec
That was dope, though left you worse for wear
Say ‘sup to Pac when you get there
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch
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