Christopher George Latore Wallace: Well Versed…

Today marks the anniversary of the assassination of famed Brooklyn born rapper The Notorious B.I.G. In honor of this day I’ve decided to compile Frank’s best verses thus resulting in the premiere of a new segment, “Well Versed…”. This is not to be confused with his best work overall which is usually reserved for “The Best of…”. This list is just a collection of his Top 5 verses.

Those of us who grew up during this era of rap love to revisit it every now and again to reminisce on a time of devilish innocence. Today is one of those days…



I wanted to start off with Smalls’ darkest and most truthful moment. A vulnerably raw and real expression of what is to be a drug slinging street hustler. This song isn’t just dark, it’s pitch black. And the only thing you can see is the glowing ember of a spliff.

The time: 1994.

The place: Suicidal Thoughts. Last track at the end of Ready to Die.

Puffy (Over the Phone): Hello? Aw shit, nigga. What the fuck time is it, man?
Oh god damn. Nigga do you know what time it is?
Aw shit, what the fuck‘s goin’ on? You alright?
Aw, nigga what the fuck is wrong wit you?

When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell
Cause I’m a piece of shit, it ain’t hard to fuckin‘ tell
It don’t make sense, goin’ to heaven wit the goodie-goodies
Dressed in white, I like black Tims and black hoodies
God will probably have me on some real strict shit
No sleepin’ all day, no gettin my dick licked
Hangin’ with the goodie-goodies loungin’ in paradise
Fuck that shit, I wanna tote guns and shoot dice
All my life I been considered as the worst
Lyin’ to my mother, even stealin’ out her purse
Crime after crime, from drugs to extortion
I know my mother wished she got a fuckin‘ abortion
She don’t even love me like she did when I was younger
Suckin’ on her chest just to stop my fuckin‘ hunger
I wonder if I died, would tears come to her eyes?
Forgive me for my disrespect, forgive me for my lies

My babies’ mothers 8 months, her little sister’s 2
Who’s to blame for both of them (naw nigga, not you)
I swear to God I just want to slit my wrists and end this bullshit
Throw the Magnum to my head, threaten to pull
And squeeze, until the bed’s, completely red
I’m glad I’m dead, a worthless fuckin‘ buddah head

The stress is buildin’ up, I can’t,
I can’t believe suicide’s on my fuckin‘ mind
I want to leave, I swear to God I feel like death is fuckin‘ callin’ me… Naw you wouldn’t understand

Puffy (Over the Phone): Nigga, talk to me please man!

You see its kinda like the crack did to Pookie, in New Jack
Except when I cross over, there ain’t no comin’ back
Should I die on the train track, like Remo in Beatstreet
People at the funeral frontin’ like they miss me
My baby momma kissed me but she glad I’m gone
She knew me and her sista had somethin’ goin’ on

I reach my peak, I can’t speak,
call my nigga Chic, tell him that my will is weak.
I’m sick of niggas lyin’, I’m sick of bitches hawkin’,
matter of fact, I’m sick of talkin’.


Puffy (Over the Phone): Ay yo Big!… Ay yo Big!



Next on the list is Big’s verse off of the flagrantly triumphant “Victory”. Poetically gruff with mafioso bravado, Frank left us with a violent retort to his murderers.

He told us why his enemies were afraid and why they felt they he had to be stopped. It was his last diamond ring claded middle finger to the haters. Sure that may sound dramatic but if you there at the time, the song was released close to a year after Smalls’ death, you can recognize what I’m trying to portray.

In The Commision, you ask for permission to hit ’em
He don’t like me, him and wild wifey was wit ’em
You heard of us, the murderers, most shady
Been on the low lately, the Feds hate me
The son of Satan, they say my killin’s too blatant
You hesitatin’, I’m in your mama crib waitin’
Duct tapin’, your fam. Destiny
Lays in my hands, gat lays in my waist
Francis, M to the iz-H phenomenal
Gun rest under your vest by the abdominal

Rhyme a few bars so I can buy a few cars
And I kick a few flows so I can pimp a few hoes
Excellence is my presence, never tense
Never hesitant, leave a nigga bent real quick
Real sick, brawl nights, I perform like Mike
Anyone — Tyson, Jordan, Jackson
Action, pack guns, ridiculous
And I’m, quick to bust, if my ends you touch
Kids or girl you touch, in this world I clutch
Two auto-matoes, used to call me fatso
Now you call me Castro, my rap flows
Militant, y’all faggots ain’t killin’ shit
Ooops Cristal keep spillin’ shit, you overdid it homes
You in the danger zone, you shouldn’t be alone

Hold hands and say it like me
The most shady, Frankie baby, fantastic
Graphic, tryin’ to make dough, like Jurassic
Park did quick to spark kids who start shit
See me, only me
The Underboss of this holocaust

Truly yours, Frank White



“The Wickedest”. Now this is high on the list for its overall brilliant mixture of lyricism, shock value and buttfucking machismo. When you rhyme rhinoceros with preposterous you automatically convince me that you are a superb lyricist. Too bad Vanilla Ice didn’t do it first.

Biggie Smalls is the wickedest
Niggaz say I’m pussy? I dare you to stick your dick in this
If I was pussy I’d be filled with syphilis
Herpes, gonorrhea, chlamydia, gettin’ rid of ya

Got it locked like the penitentiary
Niggaz mention me for M.C. execution, who you choosin’?
The wack MC? Or the black fat MC?
Jack Dempsey would start shakin’
All it’s takin’, is some marijuana and I’m makin’
MC’s break fast like flapjacks and bacon
Backspins to windmill, who’s still the gin drinker
Ill thinker – explodin’ when the paper hits the ink, uhh
Take your gangsta chronicles, turn to page 666
Holocaust, Big the Merciless
Niggaz press they luck-and they get a buttfuck-in’
Straight up the ass, raw dog with the rash
and I don’t fuck wit the condoms
The condoms is a problem from the AIDS gettin’ sprayed
Diseases, Big pleases, MC’s across the seas
is just the way I clutch my prey, hey
I’m crazy and deranged
Blowin’ niggaz out the frame, simple and plain
But gettin’ back, to the black, rhinocerous of rap
Big took a loss, how preposterous is that nigga?



Although the whole song was dope and the first verse contained the line: “Crazier than a bag a fuckin‘ angel dust!”, the second verse of “Gimme the Loot” made any and everyone realize that Biggie Smalls is in fact the illest. The dual rapping styles and reckless disregard for human life make this song, and verse, a guilty pleasure.

Big up, big up, it’s a stick up, stick up
and I’m shooting niggaz quick if you hiccup
Don’t let me fill my clip up in your back and head piece
The opposite of peace sending Mom Duke a wreath
You’re talking to the robbery expert
Stepping to your wake with your blood on my shirt

Don’t be a jerk and get smoked over being resistant
‘cos when I lick shots the shits is persistent

Huh, goodness gracious the papers
Where the cash at? Where the stash at?
Nigga, pass that before you get your grave dug
from the main thug, .357 slug
And my nigga Biggie got an itchy one grip

One in the chamber, 32 in the clip
Motherfuckers better strip, yeah nigga peel
before you find out how blue steel feel
won’t forget it”cocksuckerand if I set it the

from the Beretta, putting all the holes in your sweater
The money getter motherfuckers don’t have better
Rolex watches and colourful Swatches
I’m digging in pockets, motherfuckers can’t stop it

Man, niggaz come through I’m taking high school rings too
Bitches get strangled for they earrings and bangles
and when I rock her and drop her I’m taking her door knockers
And if she’s resistant “baka! baka! baka!”

So go get your man bitch he can get robbed too

Tell him Biggie took it, what the fuck he gonna do?

I hope apologetic or I’m a have to set it



Notorious was exclusively known for his storytelling ability and the epitome of that storytelling ability is “I Got a Story to Tell”. On this song he flaunts his uncanny ability like its second nature. I could never picture a song as vividly as I do this one. I can see everything from what time of day it is to the color of the lamp shade on the nightstand. I can even smell the homegrown.

“I kick flows for ya, kick down doors for ya
Even left all my motherfuckin‘ hoes for ya
Niggaz think Frankie pussy whipped, nigga picture that
With a Kodak, Insta-ma-tak
We don’t get down like that, lay my game down quite flat
Sweetness, where you parked at?
Petiteness but that ass fat
She got a body make a nigga wanna eat that, I’m fuckin‘ witchu
The bitch official doe, dick harder than a missile yo
Try to hit if she trippin’ dissapearin’ like Arsenio
Yo, the bitch push a double-oh
with the five in front, probably a connivin’ stunt
Y’all drive in front, I’m a peel with her
Find a deal with her, she fuck around and steal, huh?

Then we all get laced
Television’s, Versacci heaven, when I’m up in ’em
The shit she kicked, all the shit’s legit
She get dick from a player off the New York Knicks
Nigga tricked ridiculous, the shit was plush
She’s stressin’ me to fuck, like she was in a rush
We fucked in his bed, quite dangerous
I’m in his ass while he playin’ gainst the Utah Jazz
My 112, CD blast, I was past
She came twice I came last, roll the grass
She giggle, sayin’ i’m smokin on homegrown
Then I heard her moan, honey I’m home
Yep, tote chrome for situations like this
I’m up in his broad I know he won’t like this
Now I’m like bitch you better talk to him
Before this fist put a spark to him
Fuck around shit get dark to him, put a part through him
Lose a major part to him, arm, leg
She beggin’ me to stop but this cat gettin’ closer
Gettin’ hot like a toaster, I cocks the toast, uhh
Before my eyes could blink
She screams out, “Honey bring me up somethin’ to drink!”
He go back downstairs more time to think
Her brain racin’, she’s tellin’ me to stay patient
She don’t know I’m, cool as a fan
Gat in hand, I don’t wanna blast her man
But I can and I will doe, I probably chill doe
Even though situation lookin’ kinda ill yo
It came to me like a song I wrote
Told the bitch gimme your scarf, pillowcase and rope
Got dressed quick, tied the scarf around my face
Roped the bitch up, gagged her mouth with the pillowcase
Play the cut, nigga comin’ off some love potion shit
Flash the heat on em, he stood emotionless
Dropped the glass screamin’, “Don’t blast here’s the stash,
a hundred cash just don’t shoot my ass, please!”
Nigga pullin’ mad G’s out the floor
Put stacks in a Prada knapsack, hit the door
Grab the keys to the five, call my niggaz on the cell
Bring some weed I got a story to tell, uhh…



Bonus (i):

Of course I couldn’t  just end it with 5. Similar to the “The Best of…” series, “Well Versed…” will include 2 bonuses when necessary. These two bonuses are crucial. The first bonus is a classic and handpicked by yours truly. It is the chronicling of Big’s ascension from street corner pitcher to rap icon. The 2nd verse from the ever so popular “Juicy”.

I made the change from a common thief
To up close and personal with Robin Leach
And I’m far from cheap, I smoke skunk with my peeps all day
Spread love, it’s the Brooklyn way
The Moet and Alize keep me pissy
Girls used to diss me
Now they write letters ’cause they miss me

I never thought it could happen, this rappin’ stuff
I was too used to packin’ gats and stuff
Now honies play me close like butter played toast
From the Mississippi down to the east coast

Condos in Queens, indo for weeks
Sold out seats to hear Biggie Smalls speak
Livin’ life without fear
Puttin’ 5 karats in my baby girl’s ears
Lunches, brunches, interviews by the pool
Considered a fool ’cause I dropped out of high school
Stereotypes of a black male misunderstood
And it’s still all good…


Bonus (ii):

Next is another classic, “Flava in Ya Ear (Remix)”. I usually refrain from choosing popular songs but this verse is so dope that there is no way I could exclude it. This was a young Frank wielding his iron fist and fondling punchlines like no one business.

Niggas is mad I get more butt than ash trays,
Fuck a fair one I get mines the fast way,
The ski mask way,
Ransom notes,
Far from handsome…but damn a nigga tote,

Puffy: What ya’ tote?

More guns than roses,
Foes is,
shaking in their boots,
Invisible bullies like The Gooch

Disappear…vamoose…you’re wack to me,
Take them rhymes back to the factory,
I see,
The gimmicks…the wack lyrics,
The shit is depressing…pathetic…please forget it,
You’re mad cause my style you’re admiring,
Don’t be mad…UPS is hiring,
You shoulda been a cop…fuck hip-hop,
With that freestyle you’re bound to get shot
Not from Houston but I rap-a-lot,
Pack the gat a lot,
The flav’s bout to drop uhh…”

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