CHORUS All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know Come face to face and it’s a whole different story Shut up and stop talking, Step, Start walkin They smile in your face… stab you when you’re not watching. All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know Come face to face and it’s a whole different story They tell ya one thing, and then go do another/ Its about time we blew your cover
V1 – TONEDEFF Hey, what’s a matter with the world today?/ There’s lots of hypocrites lurking, You can be sure to say/ See, plenty of times, I’ve been verbally burned or turned away/ By niggas that haven’t earned their say, so, in my defense, I’ve learned to play/ Cause I discerned decay in many crevices, heady rappers, biters, writers and editors…So I take preventative measures/ It’s shame that this game b-b-became a bit of a pain/ I’m dealing with strain by gettin my name shit on by niggas that bitch and complain/ Consider the fame of underground rappers/ Who stand to waste their fan bases if soundscan can catch up, like Sales are bad luck/ Some cats only support you when they believe they’ve bought you/ But abort you the minute you blow the fuck up, or even start to/ No need argue, with these mean elitists/ This new breed of teens is conceited, thinking that they conceived the whole scene as you see it/ Like history prior to them was deleted/ Now, either you’re a conformist or an extremist/ My grievances are not with warrant because I’ve seen this… shitty element shine through/ By cynical individuals carrying rifles/ Don’t be original, don’t even try to/ You’ll always sound like somebody else, till somebody else sounds like you/ Be mindful of the powers that scheme/ I’m seeing these dudes that never paid dues with interviews and 2 page spreads in glossy magazines/ And I’ve had it with these fraudulent skeptics/ The type to say they wrecked shit, when the whole audience was on their guest list.
V1 – DEACON THE VILLAIN Don’t you hate people without cars, that critique how you’re driving?/ What about them backseat rhymers, doggin’ your one-liners?/ Hip-Hop-ocrites, they ain’t droppin shit, so they smell yours/ And tell you how bad it stinks! Claiming you fell short/ Of their goal. It’s like you’re at a stage show/ They ain’t throwing tomatoes, but full bottles of Prego/ Like not seeking their non-seasoned advice would lead to your detriment/ While they’re sounding like P. Diddy with a speech impediment/ Knockin your better shit! (Y’all couldn’t have heard it right!) Usually, they are suburbanites that are living the urban life/ Acting like your goal should be to be underground for life/ (Aight, then pay our bills, bitch, and turn on our lights!) These motherfuckas act like there’s a set of rules to follow/ Well, check this…for you I got a set of jewels to swallow/ Cause half the cats you praise, you only like because he’s cool with your other favorite rapper/ You only like him because he used to be Eminem’s back-up/ Took a picture, had it posterized and found a wall to tack up/ But when Eminem blew up, you threw up/ Dissed him, and became the next underground sensation’s new slut/ It’s all sad. To you, songs with sung hooks, they’re all bad/ But throw Anticon’s wackest rapper on it, and you’re all glad/ This madness and inconsistency dulls my shine/ These bitches would try to discredit VISA if it rhymed/ (Now chew on that line).
Chorus
V2A – TONEDEFF What do you do if you’re a dick, nobody likes you, and you never get light? You start your own hip-hop website! Now you’re a big fish in a small pond, controlling all the facets/ Your opinions disappear in the instant your browser crashes/ You underground babies cry the most, like you’re starting to teethe/ He’s fifteen with an opinion – But me? I’m an artist with beef/ “Dude, Tonedeff is all flow, he only talks fast”/ Oh yeah? Well, here’s a SLOW FUCK YOU for you’re stalled ass”
V2B – DEACON THE VILLAIN Well, what do you do when your careers dying, nearly with its breath gone/ You start whining, complaining, claiming you’re getting slept on/ In the lab mixing elements for your so-called ‘best song’/ Yelling, “I got the next bullet-single!” but Billboard is wearing Teflon/ Cooking up food for thought, but when your meal drops/ And listeners don’t like your flavor, you pout that, “Y’all don’t know real hip-hop!” Eat a dick, doc. Your fame clock must be passed its tick-tock/ Now, punching soda cans is the only way you’ll hit-pop.
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