[Chorus - Tonedeff & Deacon the Villain]
All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know me
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
[Verse 1 - 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 sounds can 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
[Verse 2 - 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 whackest 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]
[Verse 3 – 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”
[Verse 3 – 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
