Brothers ain’t shit,
So don’t honk your horn, keep rolling.
No, I don’t wanna ride cause the shit might be stolen.
Anyway, I know your number:
You got a ‘Gas, Grass or Ass’ sticker on your bumper.
Brothers on the butters can’t flip the Parkay.
This is business: they don’t care about your lyrics;
The better you sell, the better future for their children.
Controversy sells, so they support conflict,
Makes more progress, means more profit.
An artist gets killed, they say they’re ‘so sorry,’
Meanwhile, they tell you the date of his next project.
What a life…death made them more profit:
Record companies get paid for your drama.
Rappers hate each other, not the labels that got rich,
Don’t care about culture, they only want profit.
If your album sell slow, bet you’ll get dropped quick;
Q-Tip warned us: the industry’s toxic.
For reference, check out BDP’s Sex and Violence.
Could hate a person, but in fact it’s not worth it.
Never know how long you’ve got on this earth, kid.
I can’t relate to livin’ less than great.
I know you think my life is good ‘cause my diamond piece,
But my life been good since I started finding peace.
We fight every night, now that’s not kosher.
I reminisce with bliss of when we was closer,
And wake up to be greeted by an argument again,
…You act like you’re ten.
So immature, I try to concentrate on a cure,
And keep lookin’ at the front door.
Why’s my name the Large Professor?
Cause I milked your cow, in other words I hit your heifer.
If rhyme is a crime, my mic is my co-defendant.
Laugh now, cry later: this is the karma.
Hip-hop never died, it’s just sick of the drama.
For what it’s worth, I’ve been a hip-hopper from birth.
Try to disrespect, and get your ass played up like a Smurf.
Ayo, shout out to Mobb Deep, the Extra P
Busta Rhymes, De La, the J Beez, so don’t sleep
I’m an animal thug, I grew up eatin’ animal cookies
Large Professor, none greater none fresher,
Won’t fold under pressure…grew up down the road from Fran Drescher.
I use a pick in my hair without force.
You use a lawn mower–you got peat moss.
(Peace!) Piece of what?
You can’t mean P-E-A-C-E
Cause I’ve seen people on the streets
Shoot the next man and turn around and say ‘peace.’
But that’s leaving people in pieces
It’s not what the meaning of peace is.
The greatest lesson ever learned has yet to be taught.
‘Cause in my physical I can express through song,
Delete stress like Motrin, then extend strong.
I drink Moet with Medusa, give her shotguns in hell
From the spliff that I lift and inhale…it ain’t hard to tell.
Deep like The Shining, sparkle like a diamond,
Sneak a Uzi on the Island in my army jacket lining.
Hit the Earth like a comet…invasion,
Nas is like the Afrocentric Asian: half-man, half-amazing.
It ain’t hard to tell, I excel then prevail,
The mic is contacted, I attract clientele.
My mic check is life or death, breathing a sniper’s breath,
I exhale the yellow smoke of buddha through righteous steps.