About This Track
"Hip Hop" is a track by Yasiin Bey, from the album Black on Both Sides, released 12th October 1999. Full lyrics are available below.
About the Artist
Lyrics
[Intro] You say, "One for the treble, two for the time" Come on, y'all, let's rock this! You say, "One for the treble, two for the time" Come on! Speech is my hammer, bang the world into shape Now let it fall, huh! [Verse 1: Mos Def] My restlessness is my nemesis It's hard to really chill and sit still, committed to page I write a rhyme, sometimes won't finish for days Scrutinize my literature, from the large to the miniature I mathematically add-minister, subtract the wack Selekta! Wheel it back, I'm feelin' that (Ha-ha-ha) From the core to the perimeter, Black You know the motto — stay fluid even in staccato (Mos Def) Full-blooded, full throttle Breathe deep inside the drum hollow... there's the hum Young man, where you from? Brooklyn number one! Native son speakin' in the native tongue I got my eyes on tomorrow (There it is!) While you still tryna find where it is I'm on the Ave. where it lives and dies, violently but silently Shine so vibrantly that eyes squint to catch a glimpse Embrace the bass with my dark ink fingertips Used to speak the King's English But caught a rash on my lips, so now I chat just like this Long range from the baseline (Swish!) Move like a apparition, low to the ground with ammunition (CH-CH-POW!) Move from the gate, voice cued on your tape Puttin' food on your plate, many crews can relate Who choosin' your fate? Yo! We went from pickin' cotton to chain gang line choppin' To Be-Boppin', to hip-hoppin' Blues people got the blue chip stock option Invisible man, got the whole world watchin' (Where ya at?!) I'm high, low, East, West, all over your map I'm gettin' big props with this thing called hip-hop Where you can either get paid or get shot When your product in stock, the fair-weather friends flock When your chart position drop, then the phone calls.. Chill for a minute, let's see who else hot, snatch your shelf spot Don't gas yourself, Akh' The industry just a better built cell block A long way from the shell tops And the bells that L rocked (Rock, rock, rock, rock...) [Scratching] The more emotion I put into it, the harder I rock [Verse 2: Mos Def] Hip-hop is prosecution evidence An out of court settlement, ad space for liquor Sick without benefits (HUH?!) Luxury tenements chokin' the skyline It's low life gettin' tree-top high It is a back water remedy, bitter and tender memory A Class E felony, facin' the death penalty (HUH?!) Stimulant and sedative, original repetitive Violently competitive, a school unaccredited (There it is!) The break beats you get broken with, on time and inappropriate Hip-hop went from sellin' crack to smokin' it Medicine for loneliness remind me of Thelonious and Dizzy Propers to B-Boys gettin' busy The war-time snap shot, the working man's jack-pot A two dollar snack box sold beneath the crack spot Olympic sponsor of the black Glock Gold medalist in the back shot From the sovereign state of the have-nots Where farmers have trouble with cash crops (HUH?!) It's all-city like Phase 2 Hip-hop will simply amaze you, praise you, pay you Do whatever you say do, but, Black, it can't save you
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