THE REPORTER

You talk a lotta shit and call yourself a reporter,
Makin all your money droppin' beats to human slaugher
Hard core to the bone is what you say to all the ladies,
But you haven't seen the hood since you bought your last Mercedes.
Only in the projects to film for MTV.
With all your wacked out leeches and accountant slick Morey.
Gold teeth and medallions make you a cold-ass sucka,
Makin' money for the man like a lame-ass mother fucka.
Put my foot up your ass so far there won't be room for jello,
Then drop you without your posse with all your shit inside the ghetto.
Crackheads and dopefiends- it'll be you they start poppin'
When you're not part of the solution you're only part of the problem.

I ain't the white devil- though Vibe may say I'm frontin'
When I use terminology like "wack", "fly" or "suh'in".
I got no gift from god, use my skills to make it better,
For the brothers back at Franklin and your funky cousin Lester.

Exclaim that you're a slave but you've got all these choices.
Where you sign your name decides who your fucking boss is.
Stomp like a playa in a nubian syndacate;
Your CD on MCA makes you a hypocrite.
A billboard for the man, you hawk that namebrand crap.
Like Run DMC and LL Cool J for The Gap.
Yeah, go get yours and damn the congregations,
But don't come around beggin' for reparations.
Blame other people for makin Junior a thug,
When he's only imitating your video that he dug.
You're livin' large and that's all that really matters.
Not from honest work, but insipid, mindless chatter.

I ain't no peckerwood- cause your homees wanna be tight
With a gringo saying "word", "peace out" and "ah'ight."
You got no gift from god, just get exploited by your master,
A slave to ghetto image you easy way out, sorry bastard.

You can copy someone who wears a different sweater.
If you're gonna be a wannabe why dontcha pick someone better,
To follow in the footsteps, it doesn't have to be a gangsta.
Try to be like a brother who's got his shit together.
That's not real acceptance because you play it to the hilt.
Tatoo's, 40 ounces and more skeezers than brother Wilt.
Jewlery hangin off ya and I can see your boxers,
But that doesn't make you a playa or a hip hopper.
The man brought you up cause he knows you're only posin.
So he can sell more tapes to the demographically chosen.
Another genre watered down and sold to the masses.
The poster child for bustas; it's your downgraded status.

I ain't no wannabe- I'm not in cahoots,
Cause I talk about coochie, my jimmy or knockin boots.
Proppin up thugs is not a real solution,
Acting like a hood is not revolution.

Women are nothin, but just a passin fancy.
Overcompensating dick - control your inner pansy.
Couldn't handle a lady; what she wants already knows.
Only with the bitches who act like skanky ho's.
Jump bed to bed- some day you'll get the hiv.
If one of your cave bends doesn't stick you with a shiv.
Don't try to start a harem of low-esteem, unwed mothers.
Don't pop a cap in someone for wearin' different colors.
Make teeny-boppers giggle when you drop an F-Bomb.
Rile up the sheep when you prattle on and on.
Get the clueless bouncin off the walls and swingin when you're illin'.
Then say you're frustrated by all the brothers killin'.

I ain't no slimy wigger- don't have no pent-up guilt.
Don't claim to be a reporter while I contribute to the filth.
The only gift from god you have is that you're too stupid to fear it.
Reprecussions from your tired, played out gangsta lyrics.

This song is on the Whitee Release Pack The Lamb.

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