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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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