Underdogs - Marco Polo, Shylow, Supastition

We made a vow to spit truth when in front of y’all

We no superstars with dope boy money dawg

All we are, two brothers that hustle hard for the future

So you should root for, root for the underdogs

That NC flow embedded in me since a embryo

The negroes said I wouldn’t prosper like Tim Tebow

I was even receiving the treatment of Benzino

Bang!

A critic can hang from twenty-feet tree ropes

So artists that you marveling are nothing than blogger strays

Pardon me, pardon this rap game fog machine

Classy tracks, I’m King Arthur-ing

A guy that sings to this underground rap raw regime

Ignore the rollers, homie focus on my words

It’s powerful and potent as Ethiopian proverbs

A million bucks from living, the lap of luxury

Original, imitation is the highest form of fuckery

Beats, rhyme, and life, that’s the real we know

And sell out, I’d rather juggle SARS-filled needles

Inspect your old meat later than Lauryn Hill’s appearances

Wait, I take it back—later than Lauryn Hill’s periods

When you and your homies spit it’s really nothing serious

Lyrically I take Egyptian bricks and construct pyramids

No longer restrained by label interferences

Forever stick ahead of my time, fuck what year it is

I move and maneuver through cities like army brass

A Bentley doesn’t fit me, I’m a early-60s Pontiac

Shylow and I know the truth is apparent

We came back to raise hell like Lucifer’s parents

From the north reppin' BSA and that beat

Every real head’s favorite MC

Otherwise known as the greatest rapper you never heard about

Unless you learned about taking cats on the net or word of mouth

But turning out credits in MP’s liner notes

Just an executive while I perfect these rhyming quotes

Don’t get twisted, I’m still committed for rich or broke

Just spit some shit I wrote while sticking my dick in your chicken’s throat

Just so your critics know this is no attempt to be new at this

That futuristic shit I don’t pretend to be

You won’t remember me for catering to clubs

To television, to radio, to haters and the thugs

And no, you won’t see me on some street shit, brandishing heat

Getting cats into personal battle and beef shit

No, this ain’t gangster, but no, this ain’t conscious

My role, it ain’t a savior, my goal, to pay homage to the legends

By setting an example for the new

Professing the party rec instead of sampling is through

This is true school hip hop, I got that full clip

For dudes who is not, to stop that bull shit

Pull switch, electrify, and eliminate

The criminal lyricist forever trying to simulate

Shylow and Supastition, wyle out with new conviction

We came to restore faith and provide ‘em with true religion

Hey fuckin' Marco!

Matter Ov fuckin' Fact over here

If you backin' off.

.. if you that late on a fuckin' three way,

tell him about this fuckin' video

Okay Mr. Bruno?

Have a good fuckin' day