Cypress Hill - Strictly Hip Hop lyrics
[Cypress Hill - Strictly Hip Hop lyrics]
Yeah… funky… come on… busy
Yeah, yeah this one goes out
To all you "real" emcees
Rappin’ on R&B records and shit
Talkin’ ‘bout keeping real Hip-Hop alive
And… and to all you
Cindy Crawford ass motherfuckers
Doin’ fashion ads, wantin’ to be models
Talking bout keeping it real what’s goin’ on
And a couple years ago
Everybody talking bout doin Sprite
Commercials and shit
That motherfucker sold out
That motherfucker sold out and shit
All the real niggas is
Doin’ sprite commercials now
What niggas need money that
Motherfuckin bad or what i ain't goin out
I never rapped on an R&B record
And I never will
I got these phoney motherfuckers
Talk about lets keep it real
But they don't know how to
Take they own advisement
Going out, do it solo on an advertisement
Commercializing
Fuckin' sell out, nigga, this is Hip-Hop
Not fashion get the hell out
I'm taking out these so called gangsta niggas
Takin' pictures
Modeling clothes for small figures
And I never took another fuckin' MC's shit
And made it my first single, for a hit
Fuckin' hypocrite, you can get the dick
When I lick a shot off
I'm gonna, and all of it
It's a damn shame when you got all
These fools in the record industry
Sellin' out for the fame
I just sit back and watch
These fools with their gimmicks
Go down in flames, in the big game
Yeah all you real hardcore get Busy
Always seem like… you got a
Album full of hardcore jams
Just so happen to have two pop songs
And they just so happen to be hit singles
And to one certain writer named James Bernard
Yeah you, motherfucker
Nigga got mad ‘cause I wouldn’t let him
Suck my dick and I smacked him
And told him to get the fuck outta
Here so he started writin’ bullshit
Wait till I see you, bitch
House Of Pain ain’t down with us
Zippidey dooda
I smoke weed and I got brain damage
But, I don't give a fuck cause I still manage
To represent to the fullest
No pop singles, and no actin' foolish
To the studio gangsta with the metaphors
In them magazines with the bitch editors
Keep it real in the game niggas got no shame
Now A&R executives want all the fame
Based on the videos
Just a gang of silly hoes
For the fucking industry that's
Taking all your dough
I never stole it, stole it all
Just hard work, and sweat
For them platinum records on the wall
Fools want me to fall
I won't cause my roots are
To thick and strong
Like the chocolate thai stick
I hear niggas say no, but, I know they front
Cause after they shows they want
Me to smoke a blunt
I don't respect a hypocrite
Motherfuckers I despise
Cause me I tell the truth
Even when I tell a lie
All you brothers in the game run a check
Cause you get checked fucked off
With no respect motherfuckers
Yeah, yeah this one goes out
To all you "real" emcees
Rappin’ on R&B records and shit
Talkin’ ‘bout keeping real Hip-Hop alive
And… and to all you
Cindy Crawford ass motherfuckers
Doin’ fashion ads, wantin’ to be models
Talking bout keeping it real what’s goin’ on
And a couple years ago
Everybody talking bout doin Sprite
Commercials and shit
That motherfucker sold out
That motherfucker sold out and shit
All the real niggas is
Doin’ sprite commercials now
What niggas need money that
Motherfuckin bad or what i ain't goin out
I never rapped on an R&B record
And I never will
I got these phoney motherfuckers
Talk about lets keep it real
But they don't know how to
Take they own advisement
Going out, do it solo on an advertisement
Commercializing
Fuckin' sell out, nigga, this is Hip-Hop
Not fashion get the hell out
I'm taking out these so called gangsta niggas
Takin' pictures
Modeling clothes for small figures
And I never took another fuckin' MC's shit
And made it my first single, for a hit
Fuckin' hypocrite, you can get the dick
When I lick a shot off
I'm gonna, and all of it
It's a damn shame when you got all
These fools in the record industry
Sellin' out for the fame
I just sit back and watch
These fools with their gimmicks
Go down in flames, in the big game
Yeah all you real hardcore get Busy
Always seem like… you got a
Album full of hardcore jams
Just so happen to have two pop songs
And they just so happen to be hit singles
And to one certain writer named James Bernard
Yeah you, motherfucker
Nigga got mad ‘cause I wouldn’t let him
Suck my dick and I smacked him
And told him to get the fuck outta
Here so he started writin’ bullshit
Wait till I see you, bitch
House Of Pain ain’t down with us
Zippidey dooda
I smoke weed and I got brain damage
But, I don't give a fuck cause I still manage
To represent to the fullest
No pop singles, and no actin' foolish
To the studio gangsta with the metaphors
In them magazines with the bitch editors
Keep it real in the game niggas got no shame
Now A&R executives want all the fame
Based on the videos
Just a gang of silly hoes
For the fucking industry that's
Taking all your dough
I never stole it, stole it all
Just hard work, and sweat
For them platinum records on the wall
Fools want me to fall
I won't cause my roots are
To thick and strong
Like the chocolate thai stick
I hear niggas say no, but, I know they front
Cause after they shows they want
Me to smoke a blunt
I don't respect a hypocrite
Motherfuckers I despise
Cause me I tell the truth
Even when I tell a lie
All you brothers in the game run a check
Cause you get checked fucked off
With no respect motherfuckers