You traded hip-hop for hypocrisy; claimed it as your property, but I don’t need a whack-ass MC trying to rock to me; I got a bone to pick with wannabees and you know you owe your moms and pops and fans apologies
New school fools dropping shit instead of jewels
How you gonna play the game when you don’t know the rules?
It’s all about your skillz, not your wheels or your deals or your sex appeal; I ain’t feeling it unless it’s real
F*ck the money, because that has shit has got you acting real funny
It’s got you chickens acting real slutty
Like putty
You mold yourself into a new somebody; you’re an actor
Hip-Hop’s detractor
One line of mine could take out an entire chapter of that bullshit that you blather
So, gather up your fiction; Hip-Hop’s serving you a notice of eviction
And, an order of protection
Restricting your ability to masturbate into your own reflection
Not to mention that without a question
Rap’s evicting every chicken stricken with the misimpression that “confessions of a stripper” is the topic of a mic ripper
Instead of dropping lyrics, you should stick to dropping zippers
Y’all more equipped to flip burgers than murder verse
That’s why albums two and three still sound just like the first, only worse
And, yo, you know you sold out
Every song you make is how the Benjamin’s are what it’s all about
You got no clout and your weak rhymes wouldn’t last a bout
With a real emcee kicking written or just spitting out
Without a doubt; you’re not about the art – you’re industry
Never rock a show for free
Try to ban the mp3s
You’re greazy, greedy, grimier and even slimier than what it was that crawled out from under a rock and died in you
And left the foulness emanating from inside of you
You could lie to the majority, but never try the shit with me because I’ll be unraveling you while you babble and spew
About events that never happened to you
The flapping you do with your gums has got me laughing at you
You’re just as phony as the formulas you’re tapping into
You traded hip-hop for hypocrisy; claimed it as your property, but I don’t need a whack-ass MC trying to rock to me; I got a bone to pick with wannabees and you know you owe your moms and pops and fans apologies
You traded hip-hop for hypocrisy; claimed it as your property, but I don’t need a whack-ass MC trying to rock to me; I got a bone to pick with wannabees and you know you owe your moms and pops and fans apologies
You’re a shameless ignoramus, looking to get famous; talking out your anus; I blame this degraded status of hip-hop on every aimless artist
Who doesn’t have the heart this shit requires
Your lyrics leave us unmoved and with much to be desired
Cuz, you’re another uninspired liar spitting for hire
You should be fired or forever retired and every buyer you snag should get cash back, plus tax
No daps
Throw your whack raps in trash bags because we’ve had it
So far, you’ve batted a zero average
And, what you push is more like babbage
With seedy shit you’ve added in to paint it
Up into weight when it was tainted
Since you couldn’t make it on your merits, you figured you’d fake it
Shoulda got your blanket and your ba-ba
‘Cuz, with them nursery rhymes, you should be running home to mama; so, put your pajamas on and let her get you tucked in
You’ve been squatting with the lock upon the door, but now we’ve come to bust in
And rush in
And crush in any body bringing gimmicks
Those who pose and mimic
And blow up image over message
Remaining arrested in method with no vision
Those who haven’t risen from the prison of the physical to meet the challenge
And change the balance
That’s bound us
Just look around us
How could you big up that which drowns us?
You sound just like an ad right off the TV
And, if you’re down with dropping names, then try graffiti
You traded hip-hop for hypocrisy; claimed it as your property, but I don’t need a whack-ass MC trying to rock to me; I got a bone to pick with wannabees and you know you owe your moms and pops and fans apologies
You traded hip-hop for hypocrisy; claimed it as your property, but I don’t need a whack-ass MC trying to rock to me; I got a bone to pick with wannabees and you know you owe your moms and pops and fans apologies
___________________________________________________________________
© 2003, 2007
by Rayn Kleipe
