Posted on January 19, 2013

(A #KZHS Interactive Hip-Hop Experience)

 Hip Hop Top pic


Lyrics by K. Ziruolo

Music: The Nas/Scarface/DJ Khaled “Hip Hop” instrumental

(Click for music; lyrics begin at 0:33)


 (“I love hip-hop.”)

[Verse 1]

This is one of those beats that we’ve been urged to stay away from

An instant classic; the way it penetrates the eardrum

Not related to Scarface, DJ Khaled, or even God’s son

Just a writer having to having fun to show the legends what I’ve done

What have I become? Is it over? Am I done?

Will I die before my time like I was Pac or Big Pun?

You know what they say about folks who are living by the gun

I rewrote “Pushin” twice, but never heard a word from Bun

A classic instrumental we’ve been told to leave alone

Out of respect for the game; cause the original artists owned it

No beat machines at home; this is the only route I know

There’s no sacrilege showing; but the dro has got me zoning


The media attacks us and the IRS shafts us

If you make less than ten grand, don’t even bother filing taxes

Signed rappers don’t @ us; happily dancing for their masters

Posting racks and stacks of cash on Instagram to laugh at us


The Swisher Sweet steaming, trying to manage all my dreams

I never said “fuck hip-hop,” but she’s said fuck me

The entire damn industry left me standing on the street

With a hundred bars and royalty art in a bag beside my feet

But I won’t retreat; “Keep Going” my first CD

Put my name on the marquis; cause recognition is the key

Keep on calling out the politicians holed up in D.C.

Tell em free all of the families and legalize the trees

In the world by myself; just how lonely does it get?

Take a step to get ahead; you see the violence it begets?

Picked up and moved out of state like the New Jersey Nets

Out of sight, out of mind; you see how quickly they forget?

I should be flying private jets and giving money to the vets

Instead of making threats in the outfield like a player for the Mets

Wasted life on brunettes, cigarettes, and repping sets

Placing bets on Russian roulette; say goodbye to my regrets

The guns and ammunition? They’re a family tradition

Make executive decisions without a lick of supervision

Unite with the state of Ohio; make em understand my vision

The territorial divisions leave us sitting in a prison


My thoughts are so gifted they ought to come with a prescription

I don’t even hold my breath; cause most won’t take the time to listen

For the knowledge that I’m kicking when I’m instrumental ripping

Or the truths that I’m delivering when I’m on the track and spitting


You never know like Warren Griffin; take a moment to envision

Continue on your mission; write your bars out with precision

Recognize the distractions; try to side-step and miss em

If they wronged you in the past, just be a Christian and forgive em


I’m secretly a jewel; but people think that I’m a fool

Too nervous to leave the house without a spare mag and a tool

Maybe too much fluoride has been added to the gene pool

The song so beautiful; had to write something meaningful


As you’re climbing up the ladder, don’t forget the golden rule

Treat others with the same respect you hope they’d give you

Don’t ever be viewed as cruel; or bully the little dude

Or be the type of guy to use all of your friends as stepping stools

Because you never know who’ll be the one to load the tool

Write out a hit list and take revenge inside a school

Call you out in broad daylight and challenge you to a duel

In front of friends and family; light you up like rocket fuel

We’re writing out the pages; story of life with 12 gauges

Half of us are in cages; others making slave wages

An endless sea of faces using derogatory phrases

Racists taking center stage like it was still the Middle Ages


See the feds dispatch bushwhackers with Bushmasters and brass catchers

To rush past security to toss their ammunition at ya

Or kidnap and trunk stash ya; another FEMA camp capture

Bones fractured for their master; hear the laughter as they smack ya

A thousand question asking; but don’t expect another answer

Than a bullet to the head; government-issue .40 caliber

Get the car hosed down, and dump your body in a pasture

Take off the rest of the day; enjoy the sack they snatch from ya

On the verge of civil war; with thirty rounders in our drawers

Leave gun owners alone; Administration we implore

Executive-ordered torment signed through the back door

Constitution ignored; like they never raised a hand and swore


Hip-hop is still a whore, but we’ve created a rapport

I love her like The Score, but it’s time for me to steal more

Pay a mil or more for the privilege, or go ahead and kill for

Lyrical skill that’ll make your uncle sell off all his pills for

The bars are so ferocious, alcoholics spill a beer for

Have Macklemore boosting fur coats up out the thrift store

With the type of content that Meek Mill would trade his deal for

That C Stone and Johnny should go and make a blue grill for

Hip Hop Bot Pic Blue Grill

logo KZ

KZ Concepts/KZ High Society/2013/All Rights Reserved


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