/Too many emcees left on the shelf/ Prime of their career, contenders for belts/ Did it to Joey, did it to Quo/ Joell, Crooked, & Petey Pablo/ Cuban Linx 2 been sittin for years/ With that Ra and Dr. Dre shit I wanted to hear/ Ask me where my club shit is at?/ And I’ll ask where the industry’s at?/ Ain’t finna to go plat/ And that ain’t finna to come back/ Hell they struggling just to bring it on back/ Rather write rhymes for illiterate rappers/ Cash my checks and just work on my albums/ Don’t need Iovine, Lyor, or L.A./ No advances or publishing split ways/ That don’t include me, don’t want bougie/ So called DJ’s that make “movies”/ Love beer, love hoes, love dro/ But to hip-hop music there’s a whole lot more/ Ain’t tryna to fake till I make it, rather instead/ Be the G.O.A.T. by the time I’m dead/



Dear Kool Herc, come pull the plug/ The corporations have fucked it up/ The culture’s being lost on the people/ That just want bass pumpin’ thru their speakers/ 360 deals, the eat off everything/ It feels like the ass end of a wedding ring/ You create the moment, they piggyback/ Then they return only pennies back/ Posture on camera with a semi-mac/ But’ would piss your pants if that semi-clap/ In my dreams, I’m talking Pun/ L right beside me rolling the blunt/ Telling me Crock, don’t you ever stunt/ Be who you are, let the faggots front/ Kick the phonics of Ebonics and knowledge/ And exhibit how your flow is your narcotic/



Dejected, disgusted, love entrusted/ Cherry is busted, words lack substance/ Candy confections, dumb conceptions/ Some infected, I can’t digest it/ Shit sugarcoated, they’ll deep throat it/ Either all is hopeless, or real is bogus/ Right on the button, Joseph/ Not of whole, lack components/ The movie’s showin, but I’ve seen the omen/ Rehashes I’m not condoning/ Mom & Pop stores is closing, supposing/ You get out there and support the moment/Tell em’ your tired of flows that’s soma/ Sleepwalking, could induce coma/ You want that shit, that funk aroma/ An artist you believe on what they told ya/