"Yeah, Kool Keith should
keep it real
He should rap about space and Mars..."
(Kool Keith)
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
Chorus:
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 samples, your SP-12 fake examples
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
Chorus(2x):
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)
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
Chorus x2
He should rap about space and Mars..."
(Kool Keith)
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
Chorus:
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 samples, your SP-12 fake examples
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
Chorus(2x):
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)
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
Chorus x2
“Ai, Kool Keith deve manter a real
Ele deve falar sobre espaço e Marte...”
Ele deve falar sobre espaço e Marte...”
Ei, estou cansado de ficar olhando todo mundo com as mesmas botas, chapéus num tempo de 90 graus, tentando entrar nos clubes de graça.
Não estou fumando um baseado ou olhando por discos de jazz em Roosevelt.
Larguei New York, a cidade que por si mesma era estressante, um caos
Botinas e sons da vila, que não eram minha direção
Produtores entrando em cena com o estilo R&B
Milhões de rappers, alguns clones tentando se parecer como eu
Copiando meus estilos, meu jeito horror-core
Tudo que vi foram Kool Keiths surgindo
Gravadoras que detentiam os meus royalites
Assistindo o vinil girar, grupos locais de Mc’s fracos
Alguns tentando cantar rap com agindo como se fossem aqueles DJ’s da máfia
Jeans Karl Kani, barrigudos em limusines
Mixtapes por fracos Dj’s soltando lixos para tocar
Estou num pedágio, a cidade dos drifts ladeira abaixo
Como uma miragem, o estilo lá era tudo uma ilusão
Nos vídeos da cidade, pessoas comprando confusão
Ficando doidao com dinheiro caindo dos meus olhos
Desde que eu a havia deixado (Cidade), eu não consigo ver
Refrão:
Seria o mundo feito de plástico?
Seria a cidade crucificada em sonhos?
Seria o mundo feito de plástico?
Porque é o que parece ser (Owww)
Assistindo TV no tedio, enquanto imbecis seguram o cabo do mic
Parquinhos grafitados aos montes, como mais poderia soar?
Uniformes militares são lixos, são para as piores frentes
Nenhuma cifra de rap ou irmãos na limusine alugada
Pessoas no palco, atuando arduamente com milhares de amigos
Eu vi o lugar se tornar plástico, drogados virando batidas
Pessoas sem nada a oferecer, walkmens tocando rap nas ruas
Eu me virei para trás, 90% da cidade soava bosta
Produtoras escolhendo DJ’S como as bandas da moda
Todo mundo limpo com batidas tentando ser Premier
Limpando os samples, sua SP-12 exemplo falso
Meu dinheiro cresceu com meu próprio esforço
Enquanto você se intitula rico sem nenhum dinheiro que não e realmente seu
Seu estado comum se desmorona em barricadas
De fato eu arrumei minhas malas e curti ao som de E-40
Mac Mall, C-BO e outros rappers que você desconhece
Voce não tem imaginação e não ira encontrar ideias fodas
Meu som provem do resultado de moog (equipamento) e de baixo tom
Não de artifícios engraçadinhos com batidas na minha cara
Eu volto na real, solido destruindo como uma navalha de aço
Toque seu programa, mostre ao mundo que eu sou o tal
Você copia Poppa Large, a indústria é grande.
Refrão(2x):
Seria o mundo feito de plástico?
Seria a cidade crucificada em sonhos?
Seria o mundo feito de plástico?
Porque é o que parece ser (Owww)
Como eu sempre vejo alguns fracos tipos de comerciais de cervejas.
Alguns rappers são comprados e agem como como as Tartarugas Ninjas
De Manhattan eu aqueço suas luzes de Times Square
Eu faço barulho como os chapelões nos seu laço barato (?)
Sem shows promocionais, garotas vestidas com trancinhas
Pessoas com blusas com capuzes sobre efeitos me fazendo olhar pra tras
Eu ando com chapéu de palha, óculos falsos nos projetos
Me trazendo a falsa imagem de não senso na linha de batalha
Jogando meus números, esperando pelo Cinco chegar
Spaghetti na janela, pessoas agindo como idiotas
Riscos de incêndio acorda a vizinhança, suas famílias intrometidas
Eu venho e vou como desejar fracos MC’s
Você comprou novos tênis, nenhum carro, trepando pelas esquinas
Eu não sou a estrela que você é, a cidade desaba
Por mecanismo, você esta diante de mim
Fique longe do meu pênis, você me duplicou por anos
Sim, sim, sim, você o único.
Refrão x2
