(I'm recording an album here tonight. Why I'm recording it, I have no idea. It's going to be a giveaway album, that's what it's going to be. My friends say: give me an album. I say to them: Why don't you buy an album? Me? Buy your album? Check it out.)

'88 was the year, I strayed away from the square

My sister got my N.W.A tape from Sears

'Cause I was underage and the C.I.A feared

If the music hit the burbs it would contaminate our ears

More restricted, more I listened and became aware

Imitated with my peers, changed my gear, shaved my hair

Made 'em scared like O'Shea, I O.J., my race in the mirror

A video of five cops in L.A. was 'in'

Rodney, (Yo!)

They in the streets saying: Rodney

They in the streets saying: Rodney

They in the streets saying: Rodney

They in the streets saying: Rodney

I got cheap, outdated gear and my samples ain't cleared

I don't give a fuck how much you make in a year! (Yeah!)

This ain't a meal-ticket, I make my own plate here

Say Grace, rig the bass, wash my own plate here

You living off the bait, and played it safe: your career

Afraid some real shit will make teenagers disappear

Cater to what they say, yeah, entertain 'em, make 'em cheer

I'm a player, instigator, pointing fingers at a vacant chair

Wear the same gear like you came in a pair

Now, everybody's got shades, tattoos and the same beard

Jaded players complain the game ain't fair

On a campaign to smear until the champagne is shared

Leaving broken glass everywhere, pissing in the same stairs

For me, it's always been empty rent and black waiters here

Blank stares who want Edelweiss, and snares

I resist to make affairs, who want raised fists in the air

For Rodney

They in the streets saying: Rodney

They in the streets saying: Rodney

They in the streets saying: Rodney

They in the streets saying: Rodney

AK spray in your face like yeah, say: 'Yeah!'

With your arms raised, palms facing the air

This ain't Shakespeare, this is rage let out the cage

With grey hair. Lifting weights, serving eight years

Fuck the fame, I want my name to appear like a stain on your gear

Like spray paint on what they claim is theirs

In your face like an inmate, from 'scared straight' to 'go hard'

Like lame bear with plastic face gear

On stage staring at my greatest fears, facing the mirror like a

Grey-haired Joe Frazier-stares, got the face

I called him ape, degraded him for years

Now that face doesn't say shit, just shakes in the chair

Patience is worth the wait, the pain and the tears

Still bitter, I whisper: 'checkmate' in his ear

Fans at the show get the van-go, razor blade in the air

Comes free with the CD, fuck the tape care

(take care, take care, take care, take care)

Fans at the show get the van-go, razor blade in the ear

Comes free with the CD, now fuck off and take care

(Produced my own rhymes, produced my own shit.)

(I paid my dues now you can't tell me nothing.)

(When you're really prolific, you have material coming all the time)