Non-Prophets - That Ain’t Right lyrics

Wasting away at your job (that ain't right)
Are you fronting on my squad?
(that ain't right)
And you're always acting hard
(that ain't right)
Nah, that ain't right, no no no
Trying to pull my card (that ain't right)
Continuing this facade (that ain't right)
Calling yourself God (that ain't right)
Nah, that ain't right, shit ain't like that

While emcees were burning ism I
Earned degrees in journalism
Learning the system and about how freedom
Of speech is worth killing for
But watch what you say
In all those interviews
You're in limbo? Well, we're in limbo too
Contact the dead to get
Advice from Ann Landers
Transmit personal problems like head
Lice in bandanas the big man on campus
Has delusions of grandeur
Doing a thesis on ebonics
Unconsciously using poor grammar
Your mannerisms are suitable
To cancer victims
How much opposition does it take
For your stance or position
To dance to this rhythm?
(you're jignorant, baby)
Dance to this rhythm (go ahead, baby)
Ah, forget it it's actually accepted for
Rappers to have no ethics
Their albums would benefit if they
Put in half the effort
I attended candlelight vigils
For Matthew Sheppard
While you put out another "fuck you
Faggot" record

I blame my hate mail on typographical errors
Correct the misspellings
And then send out "thank you"
Notes for the love letters
Accept rejection when I get
A return to sender
Reject acceptance when the girl's
Got an agenda i've entered this brave new
World of true cowards
Talking about, "no one goes
To shows no more, they're too crowded"
So they stay home and burn shit
Then they say
"I downloaded your life off the net
Totally worth it"
It's 2000, time to stop acting like assholes
It ain't about backpackers or cash flow
Fashionable afros
Salon-style dreads or frat clothes
And it ain't about these fucking
Loud mouths shouting "battle!"
African medallions didn't sell
Platinum albums
That's part of the reason why
You think hip-hop died
It was here before you were it'll
Be here in the future life's not a bitch
She's just sick of being personified

This household is filled with the half-deads
They've got a mouthful of pills
Because they're crack heads
They shout that I'm ill
But they're doubtful of skill
With the type of stabbing that
Turns my back red i don't blast lead
I write until my pen explodes
All over fashion dreads and your Ecko clothes
I don't listen when they say
"shit ain't ever gonna change"
And they say I ain't got no soul