"Yeah Kool Keith should keep it real
He should 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 Kool Keiths on my thaw
Record companies had 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 adds 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 buy confusion
Rolling high with cash pulled over down my eye
Since I've been out, y'all can't see
Chorus:
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, crackers looping beats
People with no deals, walkmen rappin on the streets
I turned my back, 90% of the city sounded wack
Payola scams switched DJ's like
