Your Body's Texting by the Pride Piper

Many songs are measured by how they withstand the test of time. However, when your lyrics are focused on the latest technology, your track is bound to become outdated later, if not sooner than yesterday.

An example would be the ppa - ppp (Post-Public-Announcement - Pre-Pied-Piper) sensation, Your Body’s Calling (Nov. 1993: 12-Play). Though the phone (call) is far from obsolete, made up statistics can show that texting has become a much more frequent method of communicado (especially amongst the group that Kells would publicly characterize as “illegal” or “underage”)

Many thanks to the wonders of the internet, which allow us to use our 20/20 hindsight to imagine a glimpse of what those lyrics would resemble, if the song was originally written in 2008 (On the almost 15-year old i.e. “illegal” or “underage” anniversary of the original release)

Your Body’s Texting
-by the Pride Piper

I hear you calling, here I come baby to save you
Baby no more stalling, these hands have been longing to text you, baby

And now that you’ve come around to seeing it my way
you won't regret it baby and you surely won't forget it baby
it's unbelievable how your body's texting me...(shhhh)
I can just hear it texting, texting, texting me

My body's… texting… you (I can hear it texting babe)…
My body's… texting… you (Your body’s texting me)…




The real question is if anything is lost in the contemporary rendering...I'll let you decide for yourself - Your Body's Calling (93 version).

Editor's Note: If the song dropped 4-5 years earlier, it perhaps would've been called Your Body's IM'ing...

B.I.G. - "Get Money"

You wanna sip Mo on my living room flo
Play Nintendo with Cease and Nino
Pick up my phone say, "Poppa not home"
Sex all night, mad head in the morn
Spin my V, smoke all my weed
Tattoo on tittie sayin B.I.G., now check it
You wanna be my main squeeze baby
Don'tcha, you wanna gimme what I need baby
Won'tcha, picture life as my wife just think
Full length mink, fat X and O links
Bracelets to match, conversation was all that
Showed you the safe combinations and all that
Guess you could say youse the one I trusted
Who would ever think that you would spread like mustard?
Shit got hot, you sent Feds to my spot
Took me to court, tried to take all I got
Nother intricate plot, the bitch said I raped her
Damn, why she wanna stick me for my paper?
My Mo-schi-no ho, my Ver-sa-ce hottie
Come to find out, you was fuckin everybody
You knew about me, the fake ID
Cases in Virginia, body in D.C.
Woe, oh is me, that's what I get for trickin
Came out on bail, commence to ass kickin
Lick in the door, wavin the four-four
All you heard was, "Poppa don't hit me no more"
Disrespect my click, my shit's imperial
Fuck around and made her milkbox material
You feel me? Suckin dick, runnin your lips
Cuz of you, I'm on some real fuck a bitch shit, uhh..

“The Square Root of Three” by David Feinberg

Last night I watched Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay. (which was fuckin hilarious BTW!!). Anyways, a poem recited in the movie struck a particular chord. Here it goes...

I fear that I will always be
A lonely number like root three
A three is all that’s good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath a vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine
For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic
I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality
When, arc! Just what is this I see,
Another square root of a three
Has quietly come waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer
We break free from our mortal bonds
And with a wave of magic wands
Our square root signs become unglued
And love for me has been renewed