Nicki Minaj - "Still I Rise". When Nicki was a little girl, she thought "hustle" was a medallion. She thought it was something you bought at the jeweller's. At nine years old, she brought a piggy-bank into Don's Gold. "A little hustle," she said, "please." Don sold her a necklace with a little silver elephant. For a few years, Nicki treated this as an amulet. She wore it under her shirt. She clutched it when she was scared. She imagined herself stomping her enemies to dust. By the time she became a teenager she understood the elephant was not hustle. She knew that hustle was daring, guts, bravado, rhyme. It was MySpace friends, opening slots, A&R men at bars. It was lunch at The Oval and drinks at Tokyo. It was MCs' phone-numbers in her Blackberry. Mostly it was just hard work. One day Nicki Minaj went to Queensboro bridge and threw her elephant off the side. It was a symbolic gesture, loaded with meaning. Nicki watched it fall. She lit a cigarette. Years later she would remember the moment, and cry. [MySpace]

Labi Siffre - "I Got The". Horace Smith was rinsing his pincing irons when Sir Galahad walked in. "Hello Smith," said Sir Galahad. "Hail, knight," said Horace. "A fine day, yes?" "Oh yes." Steam swirled up from the wooden bucket. "How can I help you?" asked Horace. Sir Galahad was trying to lean against the blacksmithy's doorpost. This casual gesture was upset by his full suit of armour. It is difficult to lean in a full suit of armour. It mostly made Galahad look like his armour didn't fit. Galahad grinned from beneath his visor. "Copper plating," he said. "Of what?" asked Horace. "Of this armour." "Which armour?" asked Horace. "This armour," repeated Galahad. "But why?!" asked Horace. "It's steel already. A copper coating would be like painting a shield." Galahad sighed. He readjusted, leaning on his right instead of his left side. "That doesn't matter. How much would it cost?" Horace looked the knight up and down. "Fifty, sixty gold crowns?" Galahad frowned. He nodded. "Let's do it in pieces," he said. He tossed a pouch of coins to Horace's feet. Then he tossed one of his gauntlets. It clanged on the floor.

Horace copper-plated Sir Galahad's right gauntlet. Then he copper-plated the left gauntlet. And so on, and so forth, week to week, as Sir Galahad came in with a new pouch of coins. Sir Galahad killed the Dragon of Lucerne, copper-plated his wristguards. He slaughtered the Goliath of Musselburgh, copper-plated his buckler. After slaying the Three Wyvern Sisters of Smiths Falls, he copper-plated his entire breastplate. After two years of piecemeal, Horace dredged the last piece through the bullion pool. The knight had brought celebratory mead. He was grinning like a wild cat. "Perfect," he said. "Fine." He donned the helmet. He was a shining copper man. With a swagger and a strut, he strolled from the Smithy. "Lookout!" he yelled to the townsfolk. "Damn!" [buy]