Hypocrite (feat. Deacon the Villain)

All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know

Come face to face and it's a whole different story

Shut up and stop talking, Step, Start walkin

They smile in your face... Stab you when you're not watching.

All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know

Come face to face and it's a whole different story

They tell ya one thing, and then go do another/

Its about time we blew your cover

Hey, what's a matter with the world today?/

There's lots of hypocrites lurking, You can be sure to say/

See, plenty of times, I've been verbally burned or turned away/

By niggas that haven't earned their say, so, in my defense, I've learned to play/

Cause I discerned decay in many crevices, heady rappers, biters,

Writers and editors...So I take preventative measures/

It's shame that this game b-b-became a bit of a pain/

I'm dealing with strain by gettin my name shit on by niggas that bitch and complain/

Consider the fame of underground rappers/

Who stand to waste their fan bases if soundscan can catch up, like Sales are bad luck/

Some cats only support you when they believe they've bought you/

But abort you the minute you blow the fuck up, or even start to/

No need argue, with these mean elitists/

This new breed of teens is conceited, thinking that they conceived the whole scene as you see it/

Like history prior to them was deleted/

Now, either you're a conformist or an extremist/

My grievances are not with warrant because I've seen this... Shitty element shine through/

By cynical individuals carrying rifles/

Don't be original, don't even try to/

You'll always sound like somebody else, till somebody else sounds like you/

Be mindful of the powers that scheme/

I'm seeing these dudes that never paid dues with interviews and 2 page spreads in glossy magazines/

And I've had it with these fraudulent skeptics/

The type to say they wrecked shit, when the whole audience was on their guest list.

Don't you hate people without cars, that critique how you're driving?/

What about them backseat rhymers, doggin' your one-liners?/

Hip-Hop-ocrites, they ain't droppin shit, so they smell yours/

And tell you how bad it stinks! Claiming you fell short/

Of their goal. It's like you're at a stage show/

They ain't throwing tomatoes, but full bottles of Prego/

Like not seeking their non-seasoned advice would lead to your detriment/

While they're sounding like P. Diddy with a speech impediment/

Knockin your better shit! (Y'all couldn't have heard it right!)

Usually, they are suburbanites that are living the urban life/

Acting like your goal should be to be underground for life/

(Aight, then pay our bills, bitch, and turn on our lights!)

These motherfuckas act like there's a set of rules to follow/

Well, check this...for you I got a set of jewels to swallow/

Cause half the cats you praise, you only like because he's cool with your other favorite rapper/

You only like him because he used to be Eminem's back-up/

Took a picture, had it posterized and found a wall to tack up/

But when Eminem blew up, you threw up/

Dissed him, and became the next underground sensation's new slut/

It's all sad. To you, songs with sung hooks, they're all bad/

But throw Anticon's wackest rapper on it, and you're all glad/

This madness and inconsistency dulls my shine/

These bitches would try to discredit VISA if it rhymed/

(Now chew on that line).

All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know

Come face to face and it's a whole different story

Shut up and stop talking, Step, Start walkin

They smile in your face... Stab you when you're not watching.

All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know

Come face to face and it's a whole different story

They tell ya one thing, and then go do another/

Its about time we blew your cover

What do you do if you're a dick, nobody likes you, and you never get light?

You start your own hip-hop website!

Now you're a big fish in a small pond, controlling all the facets/

Your opinions disappear in the instant your browser crashes/

You underground babies cry the most, like you're starting to teethe/

He's fifteen with an opinion - But me? I'm an artist with beef/

"Dude, Tonedeff is all flow, he only talks fast"/

Oh yeah? Well, here's a SLOW FUCK YOU for you're stalled ass"

Well, what do you do when your careers dying, nearly with its breath gone/

You start whining, complaining, claiming you're getting slept on/

In the lab mixing elements for your so-called 'best song'/

Yelling, "I got the next bullet-single!" but Billboard is wearing Teflon/

Cooking up food for thought, but when your meal drops/

And listeners don't like your flavor, you pout that, "Y'all don't know real hip-hop!"

Eat a dick, doc. Your fame clock must be passed its tick-tock/

Now, punching soda cans is the only way you'll hit-pop.