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Mr.B The Gentleman Rhymer
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I've No Wish to Keep It Real
There's a disease which has blighted my beloved hip hop
Made it decay and made it really rather dull
From the deepest hood of Compton, to the shops of Notting Hill
There's a rotten little doctrine that's making hip hop ill
Whether you have got a bit of gold and a pager
Or a rucksack and a lack of daily wage
I'll wager at some point you'll have said it and meant it
You think your creedo's made of steel
I'm here to dent it
Three little words you seem to hold quite dear
Three little words that make me feel quite queer
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