Sole - Dear El-Pee lyrics

"Dear El-Pee How's your summer been? Mine's been fine. I heard you had a real good time at Camp. Oh, yeah, I talked to Len, he said everything's cool. Oh, yo, I really liked "End to End Burner"; that little diss me thing on the internet was pretty Funny. Yeah, it's live, s**er. Uh, yeah, and I was talking, y'know, trying to Sell my record distributors and they wouldn't take it because, you know, some Fat white kid was thinkin' it'd be funny to blackball. Well, you know, I wrote A little poem about it and I really hope you like it. So have your mother read It to you and if you guys like it, you can write me back!" I'm a Anticon iconclast catalyst for cataclysm Tell Fox: dissing Sole, bad executive decision Your egosystem's frail, with a spoon I could dissect it Soundin' like Corky got his nubs on a Webster's dictionary A Ras Ka** record and a brand new MPC Pressing all them pretty bu*tons, making wack beats To hell with Fat Beats, I'd rather rock acapella I'd rather be broke and have a whole lot resent Not a Rich King, a pawn, a peon for me to pee on Check out 9th Street, a big sign: "El-Pee got served" in neon Trendy indie underground cause you haven't got a choice Take a way your elitist buddies and you haven't got a voice No five thousand for radio, no hundred-thou for ads and banners No paying record stores for all your Rawkus propaganda Well-timed marketing scheme, it's cool to be independent But if it was last year, you'd be a dun or a Missy Elliot And after your indie bravado and the label has recouped You're broker than when Libra left you crying for a record deal from Luke I strike you awestruck, you femanine to blackball I'll be serving you 'til you're serving me ice cream in a mall Some fool said this an underground Canibus and LL Well that's comedy, cause I'll serve all three of y'all Heard Rupert had to starve all the indie artists to feed your ego Running around the Bay looking for Sole with your foot in your mouth I heard you like the Bay (Castro) but think 4 tracks are wack Lost in the Ozone and all your mixdowns sound like crap Hiding lack of intellect behind hipster catch phrase and babble Indellibles'll never get a full length cause you don't wanna be outshined Fine, I heard you wanna k** me and get fools after me The only violence you ever witnessed was on Menace II Society Try to sound deep and got ma**es fooled by your lack of rhythm I elevate while you perpetuate your malopropism [Yo, wha, what did he just call me, dun?] Yo, I don't know, man. Yo, I, I don't know what he just called you, man [Well, yo, go get the books. Go get the Bible.] Yo, man, well apparently you must've ripped all the pages out in the Dictionary, man, cause you've used all the words [So I'm never gonna find out what he called me? He's usin' big words against Me? Yo, this is intrepid, god!] I'm a hip hop artist, you style-biting MC s**er Had a Crayon contest with retarted kids and picked the wackest album cover Picked the wrong MC to diss subliminally, every line dissected Yeah, I diss you on the internet, to your face, and on record For the record, I know the muck from which out you have stepped First you sound like Beatnuts then you're Mr. 4,000 syllables One bar, out of breath on stage a failure Gotta quit rocking mics and start rocking an asthma inhaler El-Producto: indepenent as Fox Since when do indie records show up in a WEA box? By saying you're indepenent you belittle the whole movement Real MCs work hard, ain't got investors to put out their music Underground conspiracy but this ain't used by No Limit Mad cause you didn't blow up, the victim of your own wack gimmick But some fools bought into it cause they don't know no better That you're a hamburger pimp, only out for the cheddar Yo, what's a battle MC that can't freestyle? All these references to imaginary MCs, come battle me Remember in Boston, you started calling fools out? And when MCs try to battle, you were the first to break out Well, you surely don't wanna battle, of course you want to fight, you're bigger Fine, you win, we can have a contest to see who's the biggest wigger Oh, you win again, it must feel great, I heard you don't like white MCs Traded in your Kani and X hats for a fresh set of Echo and Adidas You as hip hop as Garth Brooks and as manly as garter belts And if you're so creative talk about something other than yourself No, I'm not dissing New York or any of your comrads in arms I'm tearing down that posterboy Miss Piggy-lookin' leprachaun El-Pee vs. the Spice Girls (I got five on Scary Spice) But both of y'all are in desperate need of back up singers when it's live And I know they think your original, but follow me through this portal You bit your whole styles from an underground MC named Vordul Spread rumors about me to everyone you meet, evade being a man I heard you putting out an instumental album of sitars, pots, and pans You've done enough talking, so I know you ain't fading Sole Have your boy Rupert Murdoch fly you out, I'll serve you on the Wake Up Show The redheaded kingpin, step child to a little herpe sore festering Heard you only pull females when you tell 'em you're a lesbian Wanna sign autographs, but all your fans are rappers The evolution will not be televised as your #1 fan becomes your master) I'd love to give you a hand but all I got is a middle finger Farrakhan won't squash this, so we can finish it on Jerry Springer Newsweek martyr, bring your rhetoric retort You oughta tootsie roll under your rock, your two minutes of fame got cut short FYI: starving artists don't have corporate luncheons Got a horrible freeestyle and the rest of your style is (studio punch-ins) The dun crusher busts fresh, overly when I blast 'em And those so called freestyles, they all popped up on your album Manipulate your connects so they wanna see me on a curb But I guarantee you lyin', cause you know one-on-one you'd get served Now it's time to pay dues like when Daddy Warbucks Bought your face onto the cover of the last Stress We gonna battle, so write your rhymes ahead of time And I'll still come twice as fresh And keep it all in the family, like Rosa I'll take a back seat Keep my name out your mouth like my wax from the racks of (Fat Beats) Fat egos inflated, hope you liked my little poem And hope to hear from you soon, signed, your friend, Sole