Hear What I Say! - Bronze Nazareth, Think Differently

You’re here to learn kung fu, remember?

This is not a rest home…

Now go on, do some practice!

I’ll probably never be as big as Slim Shady or Jay-Z

Even though I write vivid like I’m Homer the Greek

And study life like Socrates, without MTV

You think you’re thugs, but for real, I sat with feds for robbery

I’m try’nna walk the desert sands like RZA and Ringz

Gotta eat and beats don’t pay the bills, unless you got a name

Like The Neptunes, Jazze Pha or Kanye West

And if your album ain’t five mics, don’t front like it is

I got classic material without a mixtape host

Love Pac and B.I.G., but I miss Pun the most

I’m so underground, I play beats on the bones of Medgar Evers

Sitting next to Murs, Immortal Technique and The Beggaz

Like Vernon Johns with no voice, you’ll never hear my message

Not on the block, selling cooked rocks to my sisters

Not in the club all hard with credit cards in your ass

Dropped in 86, got mad when Goodie Mob didn’t last

Just wanted more «Soul Food» and an occasional «party»

Just wanted you to hear what I say, love it or disregard it

Just wanted Hot 97 to play my shit, like they promised

They never did, but probably payola was honest

I’m like Van Gogh’s paintings, you’ll never hear my talents

It’s the sound of neglect, that makes me green with malice

Serch can’t find my music, he ain’t answer me in a while

I was hoping The Unknown album got signed by Kevin Liles

But I never heard back from him, or Artist Direct

Sat in my room and watched Stagga Lee disrespect rap

While Khia got her neck and back, licked by the millions

I tried to tell you about history, mansions and killings

Like how the Wu-Tang gave the knowledge, but you just wanted to dance

Shit, my own family and friends ain’t buy Birth of a Prince

My debut, startin' to wonder what’s the fucking purpose?

You faggots rhyme weak, but everybody’s spitting verses

We used to follow Martin Luther, up in Capitol Hill

Now you follow every rap artist whose throwback is ill

Albums weak now, internet didn’t fuck up no sales

12 producers, on 12 songs, the shit can’t gel

It’s just a compilation album, full of your wack songs

And bitches dancin' all in your video with black thongs

All I wanted was for Steve Rifkind to listen, push play

And for those who’s not listening, to hear what I say

Fuck, man…