Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Plastic World , by - Kool Keith. Song from the album Sex Style, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопRelease date: 03.02.1997
Record label: funky ass, Threshold
Song language: English
Plastic World |
| Yo, I’m tired of looking at everybody. |
| Same boots, skully hats in 90 degree weather, looking to get into clubs for free. |
| I’m not |
| smoking blunts, or looking for jazz records at the Roosevelt. |
| I left New York, the city itself was stress depression |
| High boots and urban beats, that wasn’t my direction |
| Producers filtering join in with R&B |
| A million rappers, some clones trying to sound like me Biting my space styles, biting my horror-core |
| All I saw was Kool Keiths on my thaw |
| Record companies had G’d-off all my royalties |
| Watching vinyl spin, local groups’wack MC’s |
| Some try to rap with that perpetrate mobster crap |
| Karl Kani jeans, fat stomachs in the limosines |
| Mixtapes by wack DJ’s adds doo doo play |
| I’m on the turnpike, the city drifting down the highway |
| Like a mirage, the style there is all illusion |
| On videos out of town, peoples buy confusion |
| Rolling high with cash pulled over down my eye |
| Since I’ve been out, y’all can’t see |
| Is the world made of plastic? |
| Is the city buried in dreams? |
| (Yeah) |
| Is the world made of plastic? |
| Cause that’s the way is seems (Owww) |
| Watching TV so bored, while imbiciles hold the mic cord |
| Graffiti playgrounds are played out, yo how’d that sound? |
| Army fatigues are weak, is for the minor leagues |
| No rapping cyphers or brothers in the rented Benz |
| Crews on stage, acting hard with a thousand friends |
| I saw the place turn plastic, crackers looping beats |
| People with no deals, walkmen rappin on the streets |
| I turned my back, 90% of the city sounded wack |
| Payola scams switched DJ’s like a rubber band |
| Everybody clear with beats trying to be Premier |
| Clearing s&les, your SP-12 fake ex&les |
| My money grows with green from my own label |
| While you act rich with no cash on the bigger label |
| Your tri-state ways are shut down by barricades |
| In fact I packed my bags, and listened to E-40 |
| Mac Mall, C-Bo, and other rappers you don’t know |
| You’re narrow-minded and styles of mind you won’t find it My sound proceeds with moog and undertone bass |
| No comic gimmicks with beats rapping in my face |
| I come back real, solid rock razor steel |
| Tap your program, show the world I’m the man |
| You copy Poppa Large, the industry is large |
| As I do see sorta rugged wack beer commercials |
| Some rappers are bought and puppeteered like the Ninja Turtles |
| From Manhattan I heat up, yo light up Times Square |
| I make noise like open high hats on your cheap snare |
| No promotional shows, girls wear corn rows |
| People with hooded sweaters on crack keep me on my toes |
| I walk with straw hats, fake glasses in the projects |
| Bring my ghost image so tense on the line of scrimmage |
| Playing my numbers, waiting for the Five to come |
| Spaghetti out the window, people acting dumb |
| Fire hazards wake the neighbors, your family’s nosy |
| I come and go as I please on blockhead MC’s |
| You bought new sneakers, no car, scrambling on the corner |
| I’m not the star you are, the city’s fallen far |
| By mechanism, you’re on my tip |
| Stay off my penis, you’ve duplicated me for years |
| Yeah, yeah, yeah, you are the one |