Strictly Hip Hop

[Intro: DJ Muggs]
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

[Verse 1: B-Real]
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

[Interlude: DJ Muggs]
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…

[Verse 2: B-Real]
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