Funky fresh tracks I'm strapped with a pack Pump the real rap false crap to the back I stay true to the vibe and the flavor the old school Gave you what all others lacked Integrity contained in the grain of the lines Artistic expression conveyed in the rhymes Critics dismissed it and dissed it and wished it would die But it lifted and strengthened the mind Now the nineties are here so have fear it's getting washed out All the original vibes are being tossed out Taken from the streets and jacked for the beats These companies are weak their songs incomplete They seek to sell hip hop but instead they disrespect it Dissect it use what they can sell and then neglect it Everywhere I turn I find a sucker with a rhyme Not an M.C. 'cause an M.C. knows the time Rap is popping up like toast from coast to coast They try to boast that their style is so dope But it won't last a round when the real sound macks "For all the pioneers I'm going way back" Go back... to the Funky 97 Lyrics have been kicking hard from day one I wake around noon I squint at the sun Consider all my chores each day I catch more Throw on my drawers before I get the job done I step out the apt. without delay Walkman pumping "It's a brand new day" I'm gonna meet the keen-one when suddenly I see some Ducks in a truck playing "Ice Ice Babe" Down upon my ears my worst fears had ascended I guess I must admit that at the shit I was offended They proceeded to park stepped in the minute-mart I thought to myself "The situation is splendid" I stepped up to it and began to analyze the Scene in green I tagged my name "Pete Miser" Wide strokes in green dripping down the hood while I'm flipping The pilot in my pocket is my duty to advise a Bandwagon buster not to dis hip hop The shit they hit it makes me wonder how they get props As if you didn't know it takes the skills to flow Go back to the lab 'cause if you step you'll get dropped Go back... to the Funky 97 Go back to that rack of wax and two twelves 'Cause back then we'd rap when caps sent the braincells Flying toys dying many punks sunk denying Their fronting ain't it something fluffing nothings still trying To come off but the drums lost their weak minds I cultivate a great state of thought caught between lines These toys nowadays employ the sound waves To get paid and laid but still played the proud ways Don't understand the plan the man or my reasons Wack rhyme's a crime and I'm trying you for treason You're a goner if I catch you on a corner in a freestyle But I never will you lack skills that's why you're on trial Go back to the basics or face it your fake shit Wastes airspace it's a disgrace when you make it If it don't sell well tell me would you do it? If not then hot shot you'd better not pursue it Go back... to the Funky 97
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