Wasting away at your job (that ain't right)
Are you fronting on my squad? (that ain't right)
And you're always acting hard (that ain't right)
Nah, that ain't right, no no no
Trying to pull my card (that ain't right)
Continuing this facade (that ain't right)
Calling yourself God (that ain't right)
Nah, that ain't right, shit ain't like that

While emcees were burning ism I earned degrees in journalism
Learning the system and about how freedom of speech is worth killing for
But watch what you say in all those interviews
You're in limbo? Well, we're in limbo too
Contact the dead to get advice from Ann Landers
Transmit personal problems like head lice in bandanas
The big man on campus has delusions of grandeur
Doing a thesis on ebonics, unconsciously using poor grammar
Your mannerisms are suitable to cancer victims
How much opposition does it take for your stance or position
To dance to this rhythm? (you're jignorant, baby)
Dance to this rhythm (go ahead, baby)
Ah, forget it; it's actually accepted for rappers to have no ethics
Their albums would benefit if they put in half the effort
I attended candlelight vigils for Matthew Sheppard
While you put out another "fuck you, faggot" record

I blame my hate mail on typographical errors, correct the misspellings
And then send out "thank you" notes for the love letters
Accept rejection when I get a return to sender
Reject acceptance when the girl's got an agenda
I've entered this brave new world of true cowards
Talking about, "no one goes to shows no more, they're too crowded"
So they stay home and burn shit, then they say
"I downloaded your life off the net, totally worth it"
It's 2000, time to stop acting like assholes
It ain't about backpackers or cash flow
Fashionable afros, salon-style dreads or frat clothes
And it ain't about these fucking loud mouths shouting "battle!"
African medallions didn't sell platinum albums
That's part of the reason why you think hip-hop died
It was here before you were. It'll be here in the future
Life's not a bitch, she's just sick of being personified

That Ain't Right This household is filled with the half-deads
They've got a mouthful of pills because they're crack heads
They shout that I'm ill, but they're doubtful of skill
With the type of stabbing that turns my back red
I don't blast lead, I write until my pen explodes
All over fashion dreads and your Ecko clothes
I don't listen when they say "shit ain't ever gonna change"
And they say I ain't got no soul