This is a drop for everyone. Whether you like the South,North,East,West,Underground or Commercial shit...Read and learn.

Intro:
Hip Hop's a disgrace...it's the fakes that blow shit out of context
It's the 'b-boy' dot com vets, and chatroom writers givin tips on being 'complex'
It's the kids with bomb threats, the gangsters who flaunt techs, it's the CD rom 'decks'
It's calm text...and congress, and online orders from moms checks

The Commercial Head:
Yea kid...I was raised by a single and stressed mother
So of course that's my excuse, why I disrespect others
Rap is my life...I dedicate what I have to slain soldiers
Those who lived cash,women, and jewelry stained molars
A fool to get played nowhere, what's a rapper without glamour and glits?

The Underground Head:
Does it matter you prick?

The Commercial Head:
Yea!

The Underground Head:
I wouldn't be caught dead listening to Hammer and shit
They conduct themselves in which they need caliber clips to manage a diss
I can't stand it you bitch, underground is the foundation of my religion
The roots of Hip Hop, a line of division, which seperates skill from corporate bullshittin
A destructive cataclysm, which is Rap...that violent shit
Skills are vile kid, in order to make it, it's a style switch
Rawness and mildness...Hip Hop vs. Rap
You kids cop worthless crap about burstin caps
Which is for certain wack...
The day I buy platinum cd's is when the earth is flat, and I'm starring in sideshow circus acts
You hurtin cats...It's 'skill', you ever heard of that?

The Commercial Head:
Yea...but what's the purpose that propells them to service Rap?

The Underground Head:
The Love!

The Commercial Head:
If they ain't earnin stacks, then think again on who's really worthless jack?
If it's not concernin cash, why bother? Respect means shit in the long run
I'd rather make a mill, and get the women after song one

The Underground Head:
Your'e wrong dun, I'd rather be broke and have a whole lotta respect
Because the rich and skilless MC's I no longer accept
It takes so long to perfect, but money corrupts the love and sooner or later blinds their older sights
To do it for the love, they become blinded by the solar lights
Gimmicks which eventually finish, then diminish in the minutes overnight
Their molars might reflect sales...gold cd's and big screen tv's
But the real MC's don't need G's, even though we're the endangered species

The Commercial Head:
The reasons are simple kid, we rap about the struggles of certain types
The black youth...But a suburbanite person like yourself, who knows nothing about the urban life
We may curse and fight, but in the end, we unite and urge our rights
Submerged in fright, but released when we hit the platinum state
Riding in Mercedes with crazy ladies, chargin credit to the maximum rate
But it's all love...we now become the all time phat cats
As for you...all I can say is enjoy life as a lab rat

The Underground Head:
A lab rat?
Because we're abstract?
Unoriginal concepts...now that's wack
We're the roots of Hip Hop: fat laces, kangol, and back packs
We may cruise in hatchbacks and live without fat stacks
But Rap's crap...And as we move on, we'll have positive flashbacks

The Commercial Head:
You'll eventually diminish...like the straps on your knapsack
You crab cats, don't even pack gats

The Underground Head:
Only spray cans and fat caps
So that's that...Graffiti bombing, street galleries of diversity
It hurts to see, that purposely my cultures dying amongst the birds and trees
It's eurkin me, how you diss the very foundation of your obsession...

The Commercial Head:
But you diss the very legends who made a living off their progression...
Here's a confession...originality comes from persistance and heart
Not what the media possess or expressess from a list or a chart
I admit the arts got watered down, but it struggles to help the hurt youth
Money is a virtue which helps the struggles that we exert through

The Underground Head:
I urge you...It's persuasion, 99% of the rappers don't wallow in gold
Ans as we follow the scroll, your blindfold swallows you whole
Hollows your soul...bottles your globe...
But still manage to follow your goals
And one thing...set restrictions on your sights and never lose it
I'm so Hip Hop, I got a hat and a t-shirt to prove it
You could blow up overnight, and by the weekend lay secluded
Stay up rooted...Have high goals, gain respect and pay your dues
And stay away from fools, with estates and jewels
Because their statements prove, they're persuading you
...To sign with them, and dine with them
Given diamond pens, but your mind is dense
And your rhymes are dead with no lines to send...