Hypocrite (feat. Deacon The Villain) by Tonedeff
Hypocrite lyrics (feat. Deacon The Villain)
CHORUS
All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know
Come face to face and it�s a whole different story
Shut up and stop talking, Step, Start walkin
They smile in your face� stab you when you�re not
watching.
All you hip-hop hypocrites talking like you know
Come face to face and it�s a whole different story
They tell ya one thing, and then go do another/
Its about time we blew your cover
V1 � TONEDEFF
Hey, what�s a matter with the world today?/
There�s lots of hypocrites lurking, You can be sure to
say/
See, plenty of times, I�ve been verbally burned or
turned away/
By niggas that haven�t earned their say, so, in my
defense, I�ve learned to play/
Cause I discerned decay in many crevices, heady
rappers, biters,
writers and editors�So I take preventative measures/
It�s shame that this game b-b-became a bit of a pain/
I�m dealing with strain by gettin my name shit on by
niggas that bitch and complain/
Consider the fame of underground rappers/
Who stand to waste their fan bases if soundscan can
catch up, like Sales are bad luck/
Some cats only support you when they believe they�ve
bought you/
But abort you the minute you blow the fuck up, or even
start to/
No need argue, with these mean elitists/
This new breed of teens is conceited, thinking that
they conceived the whole scene as you see it/
Like history prior to them was deleted/
Now, either you�re a conformist or an extremist/
My grievances are not with warrant because I�ve seen
this� shitty element shine through/
By cynical individuals carrying rifles/
Don�t be original, don�t even try to/
You�ll always sound like somebody else, till somebody
else sounds like you/
Be mindful of the powers that scheme/
I�m seeing these dudes that never paid dues with
interviews and 2 page spreads in glossy magazines/
And I�ve had it with these fraudulent skeptics/
The type to say they wrecked shit, when the whole
audience was on their guest list.
V1 � DEACON THE VILLAIN
Don�t you hate people without cars, that critique how
you�re driving?/
What about them backseat rhymers, doggin� your one-
liners?/
Hip-Hop-ocrites, they ain�t droppin shit, so they smell
yours/
And tell you how bad it stinks! Claiming you fell
short/
Of their goal. It�s like you�re at a stage show/
They ain�t throwing tomatoes, but full bottles of
Prego/
Like not seeking their non-seasoned advice would lead
to your detriment/
While they�re sounding like P. Diddy with a speech
impediment/
Knockin your better shit! (Y�all couldn�t have heard it
right!)
Usually, they are suburbanites that are living the
urban life/
Acting like your goal should be to be underground for
life/
(Aight, then pay our bills, bitch, and turn on our
lights!)
These motherfuckas act like there�s a set of rules to
follow/
Well, check this�for you I got a set of jewels to
swallow/
Cause half the cats you praise, you only like because
he�s cool with your other favorite rapper/
You only like him because he used to be Eminem�s back-
up/
Took a picture, had it posterized and found a wall to
tack up/
But when Eminem blew up, you threw up/
Dissed him, and became the next underground sensation�s
new slut/
It�s all sad. To you, songs with sung hooks, they�re
all bad/
But throw Anticon�s wackest rapper on it, and you�re
all glad/
This madness and inconsistency dulls my shine/
These bitches would try to discredit VISA if it rhymed/
(Now chew on that line).
Chorus
V2A � TONEDEFF
What do you do if you�re a dick, nobody likes you, and
you never get light?
You start your own hip-hop website!
Now you�re a big fish in a small pond, controlling all
the facets/
Your opinions disappear in the instant your browser
crashes/
You underground babies cry the most, like you�re
starting to teethe/
He�s fifteen with an opinion � But me? I�m an artist
with beef/
�Dude, Tonedeff is all flow, he only talks fast�/
Oh yeah? Well, here�s a SLOW FUCK YOU for you�re
stalled ass�
V2B � DEACON THE VILLAIN
Well, what do you do when your careers dying, nearly
with its breath gone/
You start whining, complaining, claiming you�re getting
slept on/
In the lab mixing elements for your so-called �best
song�/
Yelling, �I got the next bullet-single!� but Billboard
is wearing Teflon/
Cooking up food for thought, but when your meal drops/
And listeners don�t like your flavor, you pout that,
�Y�all don�t know real hip-hop!�
Eat a dick, doc. Your fame clock must be passed its
tick-tock/
Now, punching soda cans is the only way you�ll hit-pop.
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