KutMasta Kurt - Plastic World lyrics

"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 Clearly all 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 ba** No comic gimmicks with 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 gla**es 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