On this President's day, let's take some time not to look back at Lincoln, Jefferson, or that lovable walrus, Taft. Instead let's give some presidential props to socially conscious hip-hoppers Dead Prez, who asked the question:

You would rather have a Lexus? or justice? a dream? or some substance?

A Beamer? a necklace? or freedom?

(Lyrics and Word Cloud after the jump.)

Uh, uh, uh, 1-2, 1-2

Uh, uh, 1-2, 1-2, uh, uh

All my dogs…


It's bigger than..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip..

It's bigger than..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip-hop


Uh, one thing 'bout music when it hit you feel no pain

White folks say it controls yo' brain

I know better than that, that's game

And we ready for that – two soldiers head of the pack

Matter of fact, who got the gat?

And where my army at? Rather attack and not react

Back to beats, it don't reflect on how many records get sold

On sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll

Whether your project's put on hold

In the real world; these just people with ideas

They just like me and you when the smoke and camera disappear

Against the real world *echos*

It's bigger than all these fake-ass records

When po' folks got the millions and my sista's disrespected

If you check 1-2, my word of advice to you is just relax

Just do what you got to do; if that don't work, then kick the facts

If you a fighter, rider, biter, flame-ignitor, crowd-exciter

Or you wanna jus' get high, then just say it

But then if you a liar-liar, pants on fire, wolf-crier, agent wit' a wire

I'm gon' know it when I play it



Uh, who shot Biggie Smalls?

If we don't get them, they gon' get us all

I'm down for runnin' up on them crackers in they city hall

We ride for y'all – all my dogs stay real

Nigga, don't think these record deals gon' feed your seeds

And pay your bills, because they not

MCs get a little bit of love and think they hot

Talkin' 'bout how much money they got; all y'all records sound the same

I'm sick of that fake thug, R&B-rap scenario, all day on the radio

Same scenes in the video, monotonous material

Y'all don't here me though

These record labels slang our tapes like dope

You can be next in line and signed; and still be writing rhymes and broke

You would rather have a Lexus? or justice? a dream? or some substance?

A Beamer? a necklace? or freedom?

Still a nigga like me don't playa-hate, I just stay awake

This real hip-hop; and it don't stop 'til we get the crackers off the block

They call it…

[Hook 2x]

[Repeat 6x]

D.P.'s got that crazy shit

We keep it crunked-up, John Blazed and shit

(*”They call it, call it, call it” -> stic.man*)

(*”Fake, fake, fake records” -> M1*)

Advertising disclosure: We may receive compensation for some of the links in our stories. Thank you for supporting LA Weekly and our advertisers.