[Verse 1]
I spit for the cabbage, grind with a mission
And put Capitol Records in missionary positions
Used to love H.E.R. like Common, but then you get signed
(Behind the Music) now I just fuck the music from behind
They wanna know how it feels, locked on penitentiary tiers
Shit, I was locked down on Priority for eight years
At least I got good time, half time in
Now it's halftime, I'm kicking ether like Nasir
Not here to be liked, came to redefine control of a mic
Y'all still stoning prophets in spite
Not phased with my spot in the light, let you tell it
Ras bitter and jealous, no I'm just better a spitter
They try to paint my LP's as mistakes, tell me
How you judge the greatest by how many records are sold
I've got no regrets for the records I make
How can I disown my own soul?
This childhood hobby, adult hustle
Don't respect the God, mother made you motherfuck you
My {?} gospel pull video of the year, presented to you
I'm stuck in a contract, no medical or dental boo
I'm miserable, y'all niggas think it's all gravy?
Stunt 'til they pay me, and I don't give a fuck
If I sold one or one million, but I see you do
Only good as your last record, bad first week you're through
Music is a business and the business of business is to make money
Creativity, they take from me
I never flopped, I just stayed hip-hop
When y'all hijacked rap music, crashed into pop
Watch dudes go plat', and overnight hot
Then every clown run to use the same producer he got
And now your song ain't a hit if so-and-so ain't make the beat
Same dickriders used to say that nigga's beats weak
Just Blaze said it best - collabo's happen now
For strategy and marketing, niggas only doing features
If your SoundScan sparkling
No more magic, pullin my leg like Go Go Gadget
[Hook]
One minute they hate you, next minute they love you
Next minute it's fuck you, then they forget you
You can play the coon, clown around this year
Trust me, you won't be around next year
One minute they hate you, next minute they love you
Next minute it's fuck you, then they forget you
Think I've figured out this hip-hop shit
Hypocrites put you on a pedestal, just to kick you down that bitch
[Verse 2]
I'm still a rap fan, microphone fiend
An insider like Russell Crowe, behind the scenes
You can be the hottest MC, literally leave the mic smoking
No marketing and promotion
No 106 & Park, no TRL
Don't kill the messenger homey but don't expect to sell
Viacom own MTV, VH1
BET, five labels until BMG
Merged with Sony, EMI, Universal and WEA
Only four labels in the music industry bruh
All radio controlled by two companies
Just two rap magazines, read between the lines
Hip-hop used to be the expression of struggle with rhymes
Corporate monopolized, only certain shit shines
Only way to get radio and video and blow
They control what you say, and the images you show
CNN owned by AOL, own Time Warner
Trickle down effect of the New World Order
And you wonder why "Van Gogh" was killed
Same reason Dead Prez lost they deal, get real
I spit for the cabbage, grind with a mission
And put Capitol Records in missionary positions
Used to love H.E.R. like Common, but then you get signed
(Behind the Music) now I just fuck the music from behind
[Hook]
[Verse 3]
Magazine writers misprint you, take words out of context
And got the nerve to wonder why I'm vexed
When I read the publication
I was like "Damn, was we in the same conversation?"
This for the rap conniseurs, magazine critics
Backpackers, rap stars with bullshit gimmicks
Fans, even the "Stans," the groupies and label executives
With corporate cards trickin my budget on coochie
Video chicks sucking dick between takes
Hoping to get saved, and thanks for the ass shake
Like Dave Chappelle in "Half Baked," need a backyotomy
And some of these thugs is into sodomy
Large print giveth, fine print taketh away
Your favorite rapper ain't recoup label take it away
Have a nigga tempted to take an AK, goin postal
Rap made me loco, hustle bicoastal
(Why?) Because the West monopolize
Same ol' niggas tellin the same ol' lies
L.A. radio, quick to suck out of town dick
South support they own create international hits
Out of regional records, East coast create the buzz
Music capitol of the world, thought it wasn't when it was
And somehow manage to screw us
Call West coast gangster rap whack, then sold it back to us...
