| We made a vow to spit truth when in front of y’all
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| We no superstars with dope boy money dawg
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| All we are, two brothers that hustle hard for the future
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| So you should root for, root for the underdogs
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| That NC flow embedded in me since a embryo
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| The negroes said I wouldn’t prosper like Tim Tebow
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| I was even receiving the treatment of Benzino
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| Bang! |
| A critic can hang from twenty-feet tree ropes
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| So artists that you marveling are nothing than blogger strays
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| Pardon me, pardon this rap game fog machine
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| Classy tracks, I’m King Arthur-ing
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| A guy that sings to this underground rap raw regime
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| Ignore the rollers, homie focus on my words
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| It’s powerful and potent as Ethiopian proverbs
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| A million bucks from living, the lap of luxury
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| Original, imitation is the highest form of fuckery
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| Beats, rhyme, and life, that’s the real we know
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| And sell out, I’d rather juggle SARS-filled needles
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| Inspect your old meat later than Lauryn Hill’s appearances
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| Wait, I take it back—later than Lauryn Hill’s periods
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| When you and your homies spit it’s really nothing serious
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| Lyrically I take Egyptian bricks and construct pyramids
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| No longer restrained by label interferences
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| Forever stick ahead of my time, fuck what year it is
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| I move and maneuver through cities like army brass
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| A Bentley doesn’t fit me, I’m a early-60s Pontiac
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| Shylow and I know the truth is apparent
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| We came back to raise hell like Lucifer’s parents
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| From the north reppin' BSA and that beat
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| Every real head’s favorite MC
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| Otherwise known as the greatest rapper you never heard about
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| Unless you learned about taking cats on the net or word of mouth
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| But turning out credits in MP’s liner notes
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| Just an executive while I perfect these rhyming quotes
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| Don’t get twisted, I’m still committed for rich or broke
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| Just spit some shit I wrote while sticking my dick in your chicken’s throat
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| Just so your critics know this is no attempt to be new at this
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| That futuristic shit I don’t pretend to be
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| You won’t remember me for catering to clubs
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| To television, to radio, to haters and the thugs
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| And no, you won’t see me on some street shit, brandishing heat
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| Getting cats into personal battle and beef shit
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| No, this ain’t gangster, but no, this ain’t conscious
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| My role, it ain’t a savior, my goal, to pay homage to the legends
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| By setting an example for the new
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| Professing the party rec instead of sampling is through
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| This is true school hip hop, I got that full clip
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| For dudes who is not, to stop that bull shit
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| Pull switch, electrify, and eliminate
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| The criminal lyricist forever trying to simulate
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| Shylow and Supastition, wyle out with new conviction
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| We came to restore faith and provide ‘em with true religion
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| Hey fuckin' Marco!
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| Matter Ov fuckin' Fact over here
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| If you backin' off. |
| .. if you that late on a fuckin' three way,
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| tell him about this fuckin' video
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| Okay Mr. Bruno?
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| Have a good fuckin' day |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Underdogs , by - Marco Polo. Song from the album PA2: The Director's Cut, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп