House Of Pain ain’t down with us… To the studio gangsta with the metaphors Listen to the sound that pounds, I jump around I'm no clown, I get down To the funk, listen to the wig out And step to the rear, dear, 'cause I'm here. What’s goin’ on Cause you get checked fucked off, with no respect Now all the executives want all the fame Fools want me to fall Get Busy… Yeah, yeah this one goes out to all you “real” emcees Busy… [Verse 2: B-Real] Strictly Hip-Hop is the 13th track off of the Cypress Hill album, Temples of Boom. I got these phoney motherfuckers, talk about lets keep it real Yeah you, motherfucker And to one certain writer named James Bernard Just hard work, and sweat, for them platinum records on the wall Talkin’ ‘bout keeping real hip-hop alive Wait till I see you, bitch Cause after they shows they want me to smoke a blunt I hear niggas say no, but, I know they front It's a damn shame when you got all these fools in the record industry But, I don't give a fuck cause I still manage Niggas got no shame I ain't goin out Rappin’ on R&B records and shit Takin' pictures, modeling clothes for small figures And they just so happen to be hit singles [Interlude: DJ Muggs] The P to the E to the T E rockin' The runs in your stockin' So hon, put the lock in Chillin' with the House Of Pain House Of Pain ain’t down with us… [Verse 2: B-Real] Zippidey-dooda, I smoke weed and I got brain damage But, I don't give a fuck cause I still manage To represent to the fullest Jump up and get down Jump up, jump up and get down Jump, jump. For the fucking industry that's taking all your dough And a couple years ago, everybody talking bout doin Sprite commercials and shit Fuckin' sell out, nigga, this is hip-hop, not fashion Based on the videos, just a gang of silly hoes Get the hell out Keep it real in the game Go down in flames , in the big game I won't cause my roots are to thick and strong, like the chocolate thai stick All the real niggas is doin’ sprite commercials now Yeah all you real hardcore (?) All you brothers in the game run a check Just so happen to have two pop songs Motherfuckers. Fuckin' hypocrite, you can get the dip, when I lick a shot off No pop singles, and no actin' foolish Nigga got mad ‘cause I wouldn’t let him suck my dick and I smacked him and told him to get the fuck outta here so he started writin’ bullshit To represent to the fullest That motherfucker sold out, that motherfucker sold out and shit I just sit back and watch these fools with their gimmicks Going out, do it solo on an advertisement, commercializing Dr. Norman Vincent Peal says, ‘Every problem contains within itself the seed to its own solution.’ The House of Pain takes it further, exclaiming that no seed grows in a … I never stole it, stole it all What niggas need money that motherfuckin bad or what And I never took another fuckin' MC's shit And made it my first single, for a hit Always seem like… you got a album full of hardcore jams Cause me I tell the truth, even when I tell a lie And I never took another fuckin' MC's shit, And to one certain writer named James Bernard. Zippidey-dooda, I smoke weed and I got brain damage I never rapped on an R&B record, and I never will But they don't know how to take they own advisement In them magazines with the bitch editors Sellin' out for the fame And… and to all you Cindy Crawford ass motherfuckers I don't respect a hypocrite, motherfuckers I despise Funky… Doin’ fashion ads, wantin’ to be models I'm gonna, and all of it Talking bout keeping it real Yeah… [Intro: DJ Muggs] I'm taking out these so called gangsta niggas [Verse 1: B-Real] Come on…
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