Shove That Gun up Your A*s

A flick of their wrist and they insist this

Spoken ode to and from all underground

Endeavors of true rhymesayers consists

Of thoughts that put them in a slumber now

 

I refuse to complacently react

To gangster rap and its small a*s phallus

Compensated for by talk of guns, cash,

Or pretentious violence made among us

 

Hip hop's not a fad or a middle man

Giving you cash for selling fans bullshit

You pretend people don't sit while crammed and

Hoping for bright days in which you now fit

 

Music's a blessing from our creator

But your not God's other nomenclature