Lyrics Hear What I Say - Bronze Nazareth

Hear What I Say

You’re here to learn kung fu, remember?
This is not a rest home…
Now go on, do some practice!
I’ll probably never be as big as Slim Shady or Jay-Z
Even though I write vivid like I’m Homer the Greek
And study life like Socrates, without MTV
You think you’re thugs, but for real, I sat with feds for robbery
I’m try’nna walk the desert sands like RZA and Ringz
Gotta eat and beats don’t pay the bills, unless you got a name
Like The Neptunes, Jazze Pha or Kanye West
And if your album ain’t five mics, don’t front like it is
I got classic material without a mixtape host
Love Pac and B.I.G., but I miss Pun the most
I’m so underground, I play beats on the bones of Medgar Evers
Sitting next to Murs, Immortal Technique and The Beggaz
Like Vernon Johns with no voice, you’ll never hear my message
Not on the block, selling cooked rocks to my sisters
Not in the club all hard with credit cards in your ass
Dropped in 86, got mad when Goodie Mob didn’t last
Just wanted more «Soul Food» and an occasional «party»
Just wanted you to hear what I say, love it or disregard it
Just wanted Hot 97 to play my shit, like they promised
They never did, but probably payola was honest
I’m like Van Gogh’s paintings, you’ll never hear my talents
It’s the sound of neglect, that makes me green with malice
Serch can’t find my music, he ain’t answer me in a while
I was hoping The Unknown album got signed by Kevin Liles
But I never heard back from him, or Artist Direct
Sat in my room and watched Stagga Lee disrespect rap
While Khia got her neck and back, licked by the millions
I tried to tell you about history, mansions and killings
Like how the Wu-Tang gave the knowledge, but you just wanted to dance
Shit, my own family and friends ain’t buy Birth of a Prince
My debut, startin' to wonder what’s the fucking purpose?
You faggots rhyme weak, but everybody’s spitting verses
We used to follow Martin Luther, up in Capitol Hill
Now you follow every rap artist whose throwback is ill
Albums weak now, internet didn’t fuck up no sales
12 producers, on 12 songs, the shit can’t gel
It’s just a compilation album, full of your wack songs
And bitches dancin' all in your video with black thongs
All I wanted was for Steve Rifkind to listen, push play
And for those who’s not listening, to hear what I say
Fuck, man…