"Addicted to Hip-Hop"
They said my look was naive, I couldn't be an MC/
Who would of ever believed that an hispanic can free/
My similes weren't liked or as of yet/
And my metaphors never metaphorically met/
My ironies never seem to iron any crease/
And no one ever caught anything catchy in my speech/
My flow wasn't even beginning to heat up yet/
Not to mention my delivery wasn't quite U.P.S./
Everyone had agreed that I ain't have the voice/
Now all I had was my message, I ain't got much of a choice/
So I perfected my perfection...practiced, practiced, practiced/
'Till every method and aspect, became a bad habit/
Mom dukes said forget music and just school it/
But how I'ma stick to something, when I'm never gon' use it/
Don't confuse me for stupid, I still take notes/
While niggas claim to spit crack, I'm distributing pure coke.../
a lil' something...
Holler at the colored...1
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