Defend Culture(tm)

Defend Culture^{^TM} Lyrics Page and Business Site
All copyrights and trademark rights for artist's name and music protected.

If we in hip-hop can't respect our own history and our own culture, how can we expect to NOT get walked on? We bled and died for this. The time for games is OVER.

The lyrics are listed below, but the title says it all. A lot of well respected MCs - true MCs, those who've added intelligently to the art - are of the opinion that the jiggy, iced-down, commercial flavor is OK to have in hip-hop. With all due respect to those true MCs, I couldn't disagree more. When we start spending money with each other, in our communities, when we own and sustain as many successful businesses per capita as anyone else, and when we don't have poverty and hunger to constantly battle, then let the jiggy stuff proceed. When we have the same access and success with education as everyone else, then we can afford the risk of looking like idiots who can't speak, write, or rhyme coherently. Then we can risk toying with the defining art form and culture of the late 20th century. Then we can foolishly risk playing super-nigger. Until that time, all this fake-ass MCing, studio coke and gun runnin', and materialism is a crime.

PS: If Black people and MCs who feel they need gold and diamonds had any damn sense, we would be shouting out Wittnauer - an African American owned luxury watch and jewelry maker with world-wide presence - not giving Rolex, de Beers, etc. our money and free advertising. People, wake the hell up, please.
(All copyrights and trademarks legally protected.)

Come on now…
All this garbage (blah, blah, blah)
About the people you'll murder?
Claim you runnin' CUBAN cities
That even CUBANS never heard of?
Please.
I don't QUITE think Fidel is really letting you sell.
But true,
I'm just amused by the stories you tell.
I knew that I was raised
To watch for snakes in the grass.
Must be allergic,
I gotta serve quick,
I just can't STAND your fake ass.
So….

Oooooh oooh oh
I can see that the ice ain't real, an'
Oooooh oooh oh
You have no love for the wheels of steel, an'
Oooooh oooh oh
I understand that your MANhood's bought, an'
Nowwww oww ow
It's about time your fake ass was taught.

Don't ever say nothing to offend me,
I'll throw rhymes that's just incend'ry.
Burn absurd crabs
Par-tic-u-lar, son.
Make incisions in your brain like Ben Carson.
See, you was that kid in class
Who always was looking for a short,
And you turned into a chump
Whose TV image could be bought.
Without thought.
But my stomach just can't buy it,
I have ta place a call now
To Mister Nigel Hyatt.
To speak to that intelligent West Indian,
I'm off to seek my brother
Like Airwolf did for Sinjin,
I'm cringing
To the junk coming out my ra-di-o.
I'm saying yo!
Listen to these fools just
Wipe they mouth and chirp.
This ain't the definition of work,
Sad ain't it that you don't even own the shirt
That barely covers your back.
Rhyme like you puffing crack.
Nigel tell me "COOL it, Black!
They don't know what to do.
They barely see what's true.
They can't hardly lead when everyone's a follower in they crew."
That filth is repulsive.
I'm addicted to the underground
Like the s*** makes me compulsive.
But never a compulsive liar.
I'd have to just retire.
Jump right on out the fire.
And get charred and smoked like fumes.
These minstrels wouldn't care
If they raised Bull Conner from the tomb.
Should realize your fake ass
Had better learn soon.
Now sing the chorus….

Chorus.

Son, I'd have to escape
The shackles and the bonds
That they thought they had me in.
High strength, atomic weight, and rare like cadmium.
I'll gladly win,
And even if I'm shot,
I could never choose to fail.
Assassins try to track me
But report I'm doing well.
Props ain't based on what I sell.
Heads like Kenny Graham prevail.
Only conscious rap will feed the stories that I tell.
While your A&R gell
You ain't impressing kids.
Let me show you what the lesson is.
Get respect 'cause I speak in FULL sentences.
I don't just starve them s***s.
I's verbally weight lift,
Swing sticks like Sammy So,
It's so uncanny, yo.
Guerlain and Tamarat in the know.
YOU represent with skill?
That's like TWO sisters getting their own shows
On the Lifetime Channel.
The niceness they can't handle
We know the Grammies are a scandal.
But where's the trophies on my mantle?
Oh well,
Life is but a gamble.
I guess I'll be relegated to the tape mix.
That hip hop junkies need to get fixed,
And feed the blood in they veins.
No matter where we from,
We still remain the same.
From Chi-town to Port-of-Spain,
Mad troops like Charlemagne.
My words are complex,
But my clothing's functional and plain.
After all…
I need no cover styles,
Burn rhymes like quarter miles.
Like math, I'm versatile,
Your little fake ass
Won't ever see me smile.

Chorus.

In other words….
"Get away,
Move along,
You're softer than algodon.
Never tell the real,
Stories change like Rashomon.
First you peeling caps.
Then twistin' chickens' backs.
Ya MANhood's somewhat murky,
Do you have any in fact?
On videos and tours,
You wearing shiny drawers.
Wit' RHINEstones on ya ass.
Was that a contract clause?
Claims of killers on ya staff,
But ya momma house condemned.
Don't know the answers to the questions,
Get clowned even by your mens."
Kid…
Turn the corner 'round the bend.
It's time to make amends.
You may be my brother,
But at the present,
We ain't friends.
Unlike you,
I don't need to sell out to make ends.
Son, what I need is…
No back talk, no speech,
No lip, and NO sass.
GOOD LORD,
I'm tired of hearing your fake ass.