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"Dear El-Pee,
How's your summer been? Mine's been fine. I heard you had a real good time at
camp. Oh, yeah, I talked Len, he said everything's cool. Oh, yo, I really liked
"End to End Burner"; that little diss me thing on the internet was pretty
funny. Yeah, it's live, sucker. Uh, yeah, and I was talking, y'know, trying to
sell my record distributors and they wouldn't take it because, you know, some
fat white kid was thinkin' it'd be funny to blackball. Well, you know, I wrote
a little poem about it and I really hope you like it. So have your mother read
it to you and if you guys like it, you can write me back!"
I'm a Anticon iconclast catalyst for cataclysm
Tell Fox: dissing Sole, bad executive decision
Your egosystem's frail, with a spoon I could dissect it
Soundin' like Corky got his nubs on a Webster's dictionary
A Ras Kass record and a brand new MPC
Pressing all them pretty buttons, making wack beats
To hell with Fat Beats, I'd rather rock acapella
I'd rather be broke and have a whole lot resent
Not a Rich King, a pawn, a peon for me to pee on
Check out 9th Street, a big sign: "El-Pee got served" in neon
Trendy indie underground cause you haven't got a choice
Take a way your elitist buddies and you haven't got a voice
No five thousand for radio, no hundred-thou for ads and banners
No paying record stores for all your Rawkus propaganda
Well-timed marketing scheme, it's cool to be independent
But if it was last year, you'd be a dun or a Missy Elliot
And after your indie bravado and the label has recouped
You're broker than when Libra left you crying for a record deal from Luke
I strike you awestruck, you femanine to blackball
I'll be serving you 'til you're serving me ice cream in a mall
Some fool said this an underground Canibus and LL
Well that's comedy, cause I'll serve all three of y'all
Heard Rupert had to starve all the indie artists to feed your ego
Running around the Bay looking for Sole with your foot in your mouth
I heard you like the Bay (Castro) but think 4 tracks are wack
Lost in the Ozone and all your mixdowns sound like crap
Hiding lack of intellect behind hipster catch phrase and babble
Indellibles'll never get a full length cause you don't wanna be outshined
Fine, I heard you wanna kill me and get fools after me
The only violence you ever witnessed was on Menace II Society
Try to sound deep and got masses fooled by your lack of rhythm
I elevate while you perpetuate your malopropism
[Yo, wha, what did he just call me, dun?]
Yo, I don't know, man. Yo, I, I don't know what he just called you, man.
[Well, yo, go get the books. Go get the Bible.]
Yo, man, well apparently you must've ripped all the pages out in the
dictionary, man, cause you've used all the words.
[So I'm never gonna find out what he called me? He's usin' big words against
me? Yo, this is intrepid, god!]
I'm a hip hop artist, you style-biting MC sucker
Had a Crayon contest with retarted kids and picked the wackest album cover
Picked the wrong MC to diss subliminally, every line dissected
Yeah, I diss you on the internet, to your face, and on record
For the record, I know the muck from which out you have stepped
First you sound like Beatnuts then you're Mr. 4,000 syllables
One bar, out of breath on stage a failure
Gotta quit rocking mics and start rocking an asthma inhaler
El-Producto: indepenent as Fox
Since when do indie records show up in a WEA box?
By saying you're indepenent you belittle the whole movement
Real MCs work hard, ain't got investors to put out their music
Underground conspiracy but this ain't used by No Limit
Mad cause you didn't blow up, the victim of your own wack gimmick
But some fools bought into it cause they don't know no better
That you're a hamburger pimp, only out for the cheddar
Yo, what's a battle MC that can't freestyle?
All these references to imaginary MCs, come battle me
Remember in Boston, you started calling fools out?
And when MCs try to battle, you were the first to break out
Well, you surely don't wanna battle, of course you want to fight, you're bigger
Fine, you win, we can have a contest to see who's the biggest wigger
Oh, you win again, it must feel great, I heard you don't like white MCs
Traded in your Kani and X hats for a fresh set of Echo and Adidas
You as hip hop as Garth Brooks and as manly as garter belts
And if you're so creative talk about something other than yourself
No, I'm not dissing New York or any of your comrads in arms
I'm tearing down that posterboy Miss Piggy-lookin' leprachaun
El-Pee vs. the Spice Girls (I got five on Scary Spice)
But both of y'all are in desperate need of back up singers when it's live
And I know they think your original, but follow me through this portal
You bit your whole styles from an underground MC named Vordul
Spread rumors about me to everyone you meet, evade being a man
I heard you putting out an instumental album of sitars, pots, and pans
You've done enough talking, so I know you ain't fading Sole
Have your boy Rupert Murdoch fly you out, I'll serve you on the Wake Up Show
The redheaded kingpin, step child to a little herpe sore festering
Heard you only pull females when you tell 'em you're a lesbian
Wanna sign autographs, but all your fans are rappers
The evolution will not be televised as your #1 fan becomes your master
I'd love to give you a hand but all I got is a middle finger
Farakhan won't squash this, so we can finish it on Jerry Springer
Newsweek martyr, bring your rhetoric retort
You oughta tootsie roll under your rock, your two minutes of fame got cut short
FYI: starving artists don't have corporate luncheons
Got a horrible freeestyle and the rest of your style is (studio punch-ins)
The dun crusher busts fresh, overly when I blast 'em
And those so called freestyles, they all popped up on your album
Manipulate your connects so they wanna see me on a curb
But I guarantee you lyin', cause you know one-on-one you'd get served
Now it's time to pay dues like when Daddy Warbucks
Bought your face onto the cover of the last Stress
We gonna battle, so write your rhymes ahead of time
And I'll still come twice as fresh
And keep it all in the family, like Rose I'll take a back seat
Keep my name out your mouth like my wax from the racks of (Fat Beats)
Fat egos inflated, hope you liked my little poem
And hope to hear from you soon, signed, your friend, Sole
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