I'm sittin on a subway, burnin through street veins
Tryina get to heaven on a Bronx bound C-Train
Taxi horn symphony blowin through steel frames
Aimin at my thoughts, just needed to feel the pain
And the kids in the boogie down that gave her a name
And made a culture out of ghetto American street slang
Hand to a record crate, stylist to the break beat
Power to a freeze, put your shoulder to the eighth street
Concrete, cardboard, skully to a dewrag
Passion of a few becomes the crowds new bag
Practicing cool tags on the trapper keeper notepad
Imitatin rap, was eager to know the half
I wore high top nikes and sweat suits with pockets
All the other kids were rockin reeboks
Tube socks pulled to the knees and wrist bands
I didnt own a pair of jeans til I was nearly a man
I watched the effortless be pointed to the cleverest jams
Wore my pair of checkered vans, whatever the off brand
And never could quite dance, I bought a Japanese hoodie
To reduce the friction between dreams of getting good
On a broken down box, in a second grade classroom
Hopin not to stumble while walkin on Jacks moon
Middle-class ghetto blaster took me upstate
While my moms makin New York City Breakin dub tapes
Chorus:
B-boys do it for those without hunger
Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder
MCs speak for the culturally weak
And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat
B-boys do it for those without hunger
Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder
MCs speak for the culturally weak
And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat
Don't force it, don't fake it
Please borrow it, but don't take it
Don't force it, don't fake it
You can borrow it, but don't break it
Born again when I pass through turnstile womb
And smell the underground garden where the wildstyle bloom
Breathe the body odor sweatin from this concrete tomb
Excrete the body rock street perfume
Lick the water from the asphalt, dyin of thirst
Scorchin hot blacktop, streetball first
Skip to my lou behind the chain link fence
I finally caught a view, aint been the same kid since
Thought I saw myself in a black kid once
But, then I realized life for me is packaged lunch
Three course dinin catered on fine china
While my African-American friends eat Aunt Jemima
And they started this champ, set it to broken rhyming
Spit old-school, to double-time
Spoken work, climbin out the gutter
Kicked one word utterance at a time
But all the while, our kids dont play on sidelines
Didn't want to write this, hard to admit love
For a people and a culture you can never be a part of
Cant change who I am, or who I was
Where Im from, or that Im likely to catch a buzz
Off of Zev.Love.X, Funkmaster Flex
Still get chills from mixtape casettes
Youre my struggle, my car, my hunger, my loaded gun
Youre my Alabama summer, when I needed to overcome
Youre my 20 years to life, my black on black crime
Youre my Wake Up Show, when I needed to know the time
Youre my billy club beat down, broomstick shower
My nation of millions, when I needed to fight the power
Chorus:
B-boys do it for those without hunger
Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder
MCs speak for the culturally weak
And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat
B-boys do it for those without hunger
Bombers paint the minds of the people without wonder
MC's speak for the culturally weak
And DJs keep a rhythm thats right on beat
Don't force it, don't fake it
Please borrow it, but don't take it
Don't force it, don't fake it
You can borrow it, but don't break it
"Raps are smoke signals, lettin the streets know Im with em"
"How many dead folks, this art resurrected?"
