Holy Moly

[Talib Kweli]

Yeah, as a kid growin' up in Brooklyn, my pops was a DJ

He had a bunch of records – Funk, Jazz, Rhythm and Blues, Soul

There was this one Gospel record I liked like, like...

Like holy moly, I might get some religion and leave you holy holy

Yeah, this rhyme is so fat it's roly poly

I give you intimate details so you can get to know me

These corporate rappers like "Why this dude pickin' on me?"

You rap your way to the top, but now it's gettin lonely

Kids is hungry and you lookin like a steak from Nick & Toni's

But don't nobody want your jewels, 'cause your shit is phony

Say word? Your shit is real? Damn, your shit is corny

My rhymes turn a new page like Mark Foley

And touch kids like when Larry Clark gave the part to Chloe

Rest in peace to Harold Hunter, the greatest from New York

Started out skatin for Zoo York

Word, hangin 'out at The Gavin, I was very lucky

To talk to Rash', once I got past Derek Dudley

Got him on "Respiration", that's pre-Badu

Bet you Garnet Reid got a Matt Doo tattoo

Sometimes I feel like I'm drownin', I gotta tread water

Head above the water, I always remember Headqcourterz

Heads up, eyes open, I got my mind focused

I find hope inside a line, my rhymes define "opus"

Sometimes hopeless people, fill my thoughts with evil

My record so hard it broke the needle

At the Mixtape Awards, niggas act like they don't give a fuck though

And disrespect the legacy of Justo

What the bloodclaat? No, let the blood flow

You ain't come to pay your respect, then what you come fo'?

Too many good niggas die, it's like a stop loss

Hood niggas ghetto like fried wings and hot sauce

How you hard? The cops lettin' 50 shots off

Baby Jay-Z's with the knock-off Scott Storch beat

You are not $hort, you are not Katt

You're not a player or a pimp – money, stop that

Learn to master your speech and be eloquent

Rappers keep peddlin' sweets, the beats weaker than gelatin

We used to kick up dust, now we settlin'

Rest in peace to Dilla; Weldon, we can't forget you

Professor X and Proof, we miss you, word

Rest in peace to Shaka, twenty one gun salute

In the air like "BLAKA BLAKA BLAKA"

You're still here 'cause you're livin' through me

You're like a gift God has given to me

Uh, uh, uh, what?