And you'll know it was me by the trail of demos
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Spare me the details, e-mails, memos
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Dookie-gold chain letter to whom it may concern
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Put this around your neck until your hangin' on my every word
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Stalkin', walkin' in my big black boots
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I'm the DIY artist with thick grass roots
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Had a couple managers as a youth
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I was too young to know better but I was like
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"What does a manager do?"
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Now one of them he saw dollar signs in my skin color
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The other, he said to keep it undercover
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Post-VIP posse, pre-Internet Nazi era
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Powers of suggestion suggested I be what I'm not, and that's not me ever
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From Lasienega to Meadowbrook Drive
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Never looked surprised
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Cut to the chase with metal hooks and knives
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Now it's battle time, I stepped in the arena
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Thirteen-year-old gladiator freak with a fever for the flavor of a fight on the mic
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(Follow the Leader)
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Mr. Chuck was the surrogate father
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KRS-One, the teacher
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There I was, sneakin' into clubs
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Beat an emcee to the punch over instrumentals dubbed
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From tape deck to tape deck
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Pause tape mix at breakneck speed
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The only whitey in sight
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That doesn't make me realer than you, or faker than you
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But I'm authentic, forget it
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Started breakin' rules
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Ten years later still hadn't stopped
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Won the biggest battle in a Metallica shirt before the album dropped
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A week later, smashed the trophy at a show
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It was takin' up the space that I needed to grow
|
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Pop pop goes the weasel (the weasel)
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Drop drop goes the easel (the easel)
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This is hip-hop for the people
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Stop callin' it Emo (waah)
|
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I know a kid who thinks he's hip-hop a€?cause he buys it
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I know a kid who thinks he's hip-hop a€?cause he never buys shit
|
Underground or mainstream
|
Some are bound to change teams
|
Y'all weren't doin' this dirt
|
When Jeru (Came Clean)
|
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Before the Freddie Foxxx conflict with DMX
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Around the time when Jay-Z and Nas' girl had sex
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I used to wake up every morning on a hard wooden floor
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Livin' in Brooklyn with a car I couldn't afford
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And if I wasn't hangin' out in front of Fat Beats records,
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I was in the factory, mailing out my 12-inches
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Nowadays, the DJs don't even spin wax
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So fuck a promo copy, buddy, you can download the track
|
Seratooo promo-sexual laptop
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A hollow existence in a bottle
|
Ya sip-sip then swallow
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I tripped quick, then followed a path that made sense
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Started out with a live band then worked with turn-tablists
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Now I strike a match with the back of my front teeth
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And light up the stage with just speech
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I remember the days Ken and Dave let me crash on their couch
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And I saved what I could and put the cash in my mouth
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When I played in my hood I had a fraction of outs
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a€?Til Atmosphere put me on and now I'm packin' the house
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Since the mid-80s this has been a game of cat and mouse
|
It's funny hearin' all the shit these rappers brag about
|
Knowin' all of them are walkin' around with massive doubts
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Talkin' bout it's only status and platinum plaques that count
|
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Pop pop goes the weasel (the weasel)
|
Drop drop goes the easel (the easel)
|
This is hip-hop for the people (the people)
|
Stop calling it Emo (wah)
|
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Irony is dead, it's so motherfucking dead, I was there by its deathbed
|
And the last words that it said (Was what?)
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Was "Whiiiiite booyyyy"
|
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I'm (Still Sick) with an independent record label
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I built quick just when I got (Sick of Waiting Tables)
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Then in the blink of an eye I (Waged War)
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(As a Known Unsoldier) with a soul you can't pay for
|
I ran a business on my own two legs
|
Known to beg if I needed to with Home Grown bootlegs.
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Cut and paste images of my face and then sloppily placed 'em in a case.
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Strange Famous! I stayed (True when School was in Session.)
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Went to college to buy timea€”that shit was expensive.
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So I shamelessly self-promoted
|
The radio station would open doors and opportunities
|
Eventually made it to Oakland
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Where anticon. accepted me with open hands
|
(Journals got Personal) on a one dollar advance.
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Non-Prophets! We had a hope that a UK label smashed
|
So I crossed out my eyes and signed to Epitaph
|
This is the hustle of an emcee
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| The |
