| Keep tryna keep it real by keepin' it raw
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| While half of y’all still be keepin' it flaw
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| And all the real heads scream «FUCK HIP HOP!»
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| Until this mediocre bullshit stops
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| Drug fiends let me show you the route
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| Who’s that motherfucker still keepin the dope in the house?
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| It’s Mota mouth (who?), it’s Mota mouth baby, it’s Mota mouth
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| Whenever I write, I put myself out of place from other cats
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| So it don’t sound like another brother’s rap
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| I smother tracks with raw shit, niggas aren’t able to bite
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| What I bring to the table is height
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| Then I easily superceed, niggas need what I got
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| Reason I’m hot, there’s no other raw season of pot
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| While most motherfuckers follow the guidelines and hip hop 101
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| Jakki the Mota mouth decides to have fun
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| Not following rules, swallowing crews
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| Son I toss cats off the stage, often I slay their soft raps
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| To all you fake dictionary emcees, get off that
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| Half of y’all don’t understand your own rhymes and soft batch (?)
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| They straight at open mics, we put them out on the street
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| Take away their dope beat, let 'em rhyme and they weak
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| And the mic can be a decieving device
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| Muffle your rhymes so they ain’t clear and concise
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| Have niggas thinking you nice
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| With battle I’ll crack all your gear and all your wack raps
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| You can’t be saved by your babbling or your backpack
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| Doing it for the love is great but you fake
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| And putting your shit out is a mistake nobody wants to make
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| Hate when I go to open mics and I see everybody clapping
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| For some clown they don’t understand
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| Yet everybody acting like he dope because they believe he’s hip-hop
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| Y’all convincing me that most of y’all are brainwashed
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| Dug (?) in old hip-hop history
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| Some cats are crap without their tracks cause they weak
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| I wish a nigga would say he listen to me for the beats
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| Some got the nerve to say they dope when they spit
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| When even they family got a tape and they won’t open the shit
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| I got a big mouth and I ain’t scared to use it
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| One person’s keystyle (?) allows everyone to abuse it
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| So what the fuck is your definition of underground?
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| Depressing beats and bleak cats who love the sound
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| Well I ain’t part of that, I’m tired of rapper’s garbage
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| I’m the part of the underground who only feels the raw shit
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| And I can take a nigga out regardless
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| You can bring your hardest artists and I’ll make 'em heartless
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| Some say they lyrically this, or lyrically that
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| Throwing lyrical in every rap and they lyrically wack
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| And many cats rhyme over tracks nobody fiends (?) for
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| Don’t fuck around with me, if you can only fuck with keyboards
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| Just cause lazy niggas use recognisable material
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| Don’t mean the dope samples are not original
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| Cause a producer with skill can lace tracks
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| Keyboard beats aren’t that original, lets face facts
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| That shit was overused in the G-funk era
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| Don’t give me that excuse, real emcees want better
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| You rhyme over enough shit, most get away with murder
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| Like kids who think they words rhyme cause they the suffix
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| Must bitch niggas be fragile with facts
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| You bragging 'bout who you battled, but who you battled was crap
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| What you angry for, and acting all tense
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| If you innocent be cool, only the guilty’s catching offense |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song F.H.H. , by - RJD2. Song from the album Deadringer: Deluxe, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп