"Yeah, Kool Keith should keep it real

He should(en't) rap about space and Mars..."

[Kool Keith]

Yo, I'm tired of looking at everybody. Same boots, skully hats in

90 degree weather, looking to get into clubs for free. I'm not

Smoking blunts, or looking for jazz records at the Roosevelt

I left New York, the city itself was stress depression

High boots and urban beats, that wasn't my direction

Producers filtering join in with R&B

A million rappers, some clones trying to sound like me

Biting my space styles, biting my horror-core

All I saw was little Kool Keiths, on my tour

Record companies, I G'd-off all my royalties

Watching vinyl spin, local groups' wack MC's

Some try to rap with that perpetrate mobster crap

Karl Kani jeans, fat stomachs in the limosines

Mixtapes by wack DJ's, as doo doo play

I'm on the turnpike, the city drifting down the highway

Like a mirage, the style there is all illusion

On videos out of town, peoples spot confusion

Rolling high with caps pulled over down my eye

Since I been out, y'all can't see

Chorus x2:

Is the world made of plastic?

Is the city buried in dreams? (Yeah)

Is the world made of plastic?

Cause that's the way is seems (Owww)

Watching TV so bored, while imbiciles hold the mic cord

Graffiti playgrounds are played out, yo how'd that sound?

Army fatigues are weak, is for the minor leagues

No rapping cyphers or brothers in the rented Benz

Crews on stage, acting hard with a thousand friends

I saw the place turn plastic, crack heads looping beats

People with no deals, walkmens rappin on the streets

I turned my back, 90% of the city sounded wack

Payola scams switch DJ's like a rubber band

Everybody clear with beats trying to be Premier

Clearing your samples, your SP-12 fake examples

My money grosses with green from my own label

While you act rich with no cash on the bigger label

Your tri-state ways are shut down by barricades

In fact I pack my bags, and listened to E-40

Mac Mall, C-Bo, and other rappers you don't know

You're narrow-minded in styles of mine you won't find it

My sound proceeds with Moog and undertone bass

No comic gimmicks, thin beats rapping in my face

I come back real, solid rock razor steel

Tappin your program, show the world I'm the man

You copy Poppa Large, the industry is robbed

Chorus x2

As I do see soda, wack, rugged beer commercials

Some rappers are bought and puppeteered like the Ninja Turtles

From Manhattan I heat up, yo light up Times Square

I make noise like open high hats on your cheap snare

No promotional shows, girls wear corn rows

People with hooded sweaters on crack keep me on my toes

I walk with straw hats and glasses in the projects

Bring my ghost image so tense on the line of scrimmage

Playing my numbers, waiting for the Five to come

Spaghetti out the window, people acting dumb

Fire hydrants wet the neighbors, your family's nosy

I come and go as I please on blockhead MC's

You bought sneakers, no car, scrambling on the corner

I'm not the star you are, the city's fallen far

My mechanism, you're on my tip

Stay off my penis, you've duplicated me for years

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you are the one

Chorus x2