(Intro)
It's that part of the album where feelings get hurt
Something gotta be said, I might as well be the one to say it

(Verse 1)
What the hell is the matter with these crazy fools?
Been spitting 7 months, talking about he paid his dues
Rappers everywhere I go there ain't no escape
These days the crackheads are dropping mix tapes
The radio got you cut and they're spinning it loud
Go to a show, nothing but other emcees in the crowd
Most of them can't spit a lick but some of them can
Nowadays man, the artists outnumber the fans
It's the retarded sounding artists that's causing the trouble
And the ones with real skills getting lost in the shuffle
Swear up and down you're in the top three the way you're bumping
Making it hard on the ones that's really saying something
Every day another born and more I found recent
Twenty rappers in your clique and only one that's sounding decent
And don't get it twisted, he ain't no hell of an artist
He only stands out because his homeboys is so garbage

(Chorus)
There's too many rappers, every city, every nation
Some of y'all need to find another occupation
Fill out an application, go work at a gas station
But put the mic down because it's fantasies that you're chasing
(Verse 2)
These fools be watching 106 and Park when they get home
Trying to figure who's the next clown that they can clone
Instead of trying to be innovative with styles you're dropping
You set out to copy somebody already popping
7 albums still ain't made you no cash
And your rotten homeboys won't even tell you it's trash
They're sitting in the studio with you night after night
You come out the booth say "how that sound?"
They be like "Yeah, that's tight"
But in reality, they're scared for the truth to come out
That your vocals sounding like you got a boot in your mouth
Why don't you try your hand at something else (please)
Go and sell some Avon
Them nursery school raps sound like you wrote that shit in crayon
And I ain't acting like I'm platinum though I'll rip the best up
But damn at least I sell every unit that I press up
Your friends don't even buy your music, I ain't joking
You got boxes from three years ago that still never been opened

(Chorus)

(Verse 3)
Can't hardly give your stuff away, I don't know how you survive
Yo, I've heard of three for ten but damn homie, three for five?
Your lyric writing, it ain't all that precise man
You might need to try just being a hype man
You're not qualified to stand with the mic in hand
See it's about the tightest flows, not the tightest pants
And never step to me because what comes out my mouth will roast you
You're better off being that dude who's passing out the posters
Rhyming ain't for everybody, still a lot have tried
Truthfully only a handful are qualified
Talent level on the bottom side
We should colonize and force them to have their job descriptions modified
Plenty of music in the streets but we don't trust who made it
And that's the reason why the fans are so frustrated
Case closed until you come up with some sicker flows
Trash rappers on every corner just like liquor stores
(Chorus)

(Outro)
See, don't feel bad, man, there's a lot you can do in the game, you ain't gotta rap. You could produce, you could shoot videos, you can design album covers, man, you can be the dude that carries the equipment... all of that, man, there's a place for ya. Just put that mic down