Chorus //
I’m speaking for Hip-Hop, them sneaker wearing, loose jeans rocking / hoody popping, chilling on the corner, headphones bopping /
in the crib loud music til’ your neighbours come knocking /
(what’s the reason for this noise?) I bought the album when he dropped it / Hip-Hop, them iced out fat gold chain wearing /
middle finger in the air and stereo blaring /
loud enough to loose your hearing, that don’t mean I’m a killer /
I just like to turn it up like J Dilla


Verse One //
Check it, word up, I’m here to set the record straight /
also here to dedicate this to the peoples who judge us /
the ones that’s trying to move but can’t budge us /
snooty nosed, bitch mother-fuckers /
just because I’m from the streets and I talk a little different /
the upper class look at me like “he’s so ignorant /
he’s no role model, he shows no gratitude /
he probably grew up listening to them nigga’s with an attitude /
I’m guessing that he never worked a day in his life /
and probably never went to school, I pray that he might” /
I’m an A grade student, I love jazz music /
just as smart as the rest and if I’m wrong nigga' prove it /
Hip-Hop is my movement and there’s no contest /
and by the way I grew up listening to A Tribe Called Quest /
yes I’m young and I’m black and I got the skills to rap /
that don’t mean that I pack and I never sold Crack /
and you wonder why I’m mad, even just a little bit? /
Cos’ you talk a lot of Clay Davis that means "sheeeeeiiiit" /
your word against mine, no contest /
go find somebody else to criticise with your nonsense /
there’s eight million stories in the city, it’s a pity /
I don’t fuck with you nigga's when you start to act shitty /
give a shout out to Guru, Premo and Zulu Nation /
they all foundation up in this /
cos' rap records taught foreigners to speak English /
and turned the young into distinguished men /
that’s why I always got my pad and my pen /
forever saying this again and again


Chorus //


Verse Two //
Yo’, I got their backs against the wall with this shit /
see that’s what you get for trying to call us misfits /
we street poets, just on beats flowing /
so why you gonna’ judge somebody when you don’t know em’? (ha) /
that’s retarded /
just cos I make beats that’s the hardest and speak street slang like "raatid" /
"bombaclarted" you say it’s all garbage /
well how do you explain the rap records that have charted? /
I started rhyming on the school benches /
and learned how to beat a microphone senseless /
it’s the gift that I nurtured, these beats that I murdered /
and you still don’t know what it means when rappers say “word up” /
I don’t blame you but if you try to discredit my art /
I will name you and shame you, I swear down /
close your mouth, I don’t wanna hear a mere sound /
Hip-Hop's been so hospitable to so many cultures, it’s un-fuck-wit-able /
so I had to make this record it was critical /
to reiterate these two fucking syllables /
Hip-Hop, in the streets we the Generals


Chorus //