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in the name of hip-hop - anti-swag fiend party lyrics

top rock. work the lung. this is how it gets done. you know that song that you sing? well, hip*hop doesn’t get sung. got the right kicks, bought the right record. get down with vinyl if you want to scratch better. and you want to scratch better because we made the weather to do this together, down to the last letter. it’s this way, it’s that. it’s already correct. break the faulty bones. don’t even protect ya neck. i paid my dues, yo! show me some respect! i gotta label all kinds of sh*t so that i can keep it in check! and there’s so many dots that i don’t bother to connect. evolution in music is something i allow myself to neglect. but what about diction? like if it’s about heart or the money? are they rappers or emcees? well, they do the same f*cking thing! both are f*cking rapping, king with high court terminology. here’s an ever dead jester evading hip*hop technology. we’re dealing with a science masked as a culture and style. so polluted that i don’t want to think about it for a while. it’s a machine on fire, clanking and clattering, gears grinding and gathering. calculations overstating all their ratings when they’re taking what you’re making. who am i faking? it’s my own rules that i’m breaking. the hypocrisy is penetrating. we’re embarrassingly fascinating. i’m pointing fingers at pointed fingers and neither side is going to stop, but there should be nothing to it, so i don’t do it in the name of hip*hop

now what’s real hip*hop? is it the beginnin’? outdoor jams with kool herc spinnin’? b*beats with nothin’ written, just toasts to spit. is that the real old school sh*t? or is it ’82 when “the message” hit, duke bootee and melle mel droppin’ consciousness. might it be dmc, rev*run, and the jam master kickin’ hard rhymes and guitars through ya ghetto blaster. fastforward to the late 80’s, round the time i was a baby. maybe it’s that gangsta sh*t that drove the politicians crazy or the thugged out rappers with the diamonds on their chest or the white kids actin’ shady out in the midwest. i guess it’s hard to say what it is today, but i know it’s not about the riches or the radio play. call it an mc or a rapper, rap or hip*hop, either way, it’s all about standin’ up to tell ‘em what you gotta say

what we are prepared to do is to drop dope rhymes; we want to see you move, but there’s a style out there that we want to omit. so, throw your fingers in the air and yell “f*ck that sh*t.” what we are prepared to do is to drop dope rhymes to get you in the groove. so, don’t stand right there, move around a bit because everybody’s got a voice. we’re all allowed to spit, so tell them what you got to say

- anti swag fiend party lyrics

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