Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Wake Me When I'm Dead, artist - The Brand New Heavies.
Date of issue: 31.12.1991
Song language: English
Wake Me When I'm Dead |
Oh, what a night, yo, that I just been through |
I barely made it home from this hip-hop venue |
These 2 guys, no 3 guys, no four, no, this posse |
Try to fake a move and bum-rush me like a Nazi |
Underground club where the kids are like rolling |
I almost got an avalanche dropped on my show and |
Cause I writes the fat raps and kids memorize 'em |
I tries um this new style and boy did I surprise 'em |
They said yo, that’s too hype, yo, who’s he think he is |
He suppose to be commercial like that song about the Biz |
The kid said «Masta Ace, yo, what’s the deal with the switching?» |
He’s bitching, didn’t like the rap I was pitching |
You see, he was a rapper with a single about to drop |
His record label told him that he had to make it pop |
Take it from me Jack, you’re sadly mistaken |
A lot of record labels be trying to get the bacon |
By making a brother into something he is not and |
You’re better of in 'bama on a farm picking cotton |
They mold ya and shape ya, they bend and they twist ya |
They get paid like quick fast and that’s when they dis ya |
So homeboy, you’re better off coming from the heart |
And letting the kids put your record on the chart |
You must use your head and forget what they said |
Cause in about a year you’ll be like wake me when I’m dead |
Wake up! |
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies |
If this was an opera, I’d probably say Figaro |
Black kid from Brooklyn but don’t call me nigga tho' |
I rocks the jams for the young population |
I wonder, I wonder, can I change the nation |
It’s futile, so I try, yes, hoping, yea, maybe |
But I can’t sit home and write Ice, Ice Baby |
Cause if it comes down to, I must have a pop hit |
I’ll go get a dayjob and rapping, I’ll stop it |
I’m never going out, so, yo, firm I am standing |
Cause my jams are fat like a cop named Cannon |
My rap is for the mind, it’s nutritious |
My word is final, the vinyl is delicious |
So face it as if it was a hot fudge sundae |
Or I’ll come get mine, I guess maybe one day |
I gotta work hard and must use my head |
To never hit the point, I’m saying wake me when I’m dead |
Wake me when I’m dead, hey yo, wake me when I’m dead |
This life is like a nightmare, I’m gonna lose my head |
So I make the jam that’ll make me feel better |
I hear a lot of groups that come cheesier than cheddar |
But this jam is well bulit like '57 Chevies |
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies |
So weigh this on your underground scale and |
We be prevailing while others be failing |
I’m hailing from Brooklyn and I strive for the ends |
But I don’t need a Beemer and I don’t need a Benz |
Still I get respect for the style I be choosing |
Rapping to the soul kind of jazz type of fusion |
I’m cruising, not for a bruising but I’ll break up |
Anything that’s broiling like an LA Laker |
So I rocks the West Coast as well as the city, yo |
I got crazy flavor like a PE video |
Plus I got alot of, um, skill and that’s word doc |
With battle, who me G, you’re crazier than Murdoch |
Instead of confronting, you oughta be checking |
The time cause it’s wasting, second after second |
You’re so busy ripping and daring kids to shoot ya |
According to the Jetsons, there’s no blacks in the future |
You better wake up before you’re in over your head |
Tomorrow, you’ll be screaming wake me when I’m dead |