I’m a Anticon iconoclast 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 websters dictionary

A Ras Kass record and a brand new MPC

Pressing all them pretty buttons making wack beats

To hell with phat beats I’d rather rock acapella

I’d rather be broke and have a whole’lotta resent

Not a rich king, a pawn, a pegan 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 away your elitist buddies and you haven’t got a voice

No five thousand for radio, no hundred thou for adds and banners

No paying record stores for all your Rawkus propaganda

Well-timed marketing scheme, its 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 ’till you’re serving me ice cream in a mall

Some fool said this is 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 four 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 ll 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 have 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 emcee sucker

Had a crayon contest with retarted kids and picked the wackest album cover

Picked the wrong emcee 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 rockin’ mics and start rockin’ an asthma inhaler

El-Producto, independent as Fox

Since when do indie records show up in a W-E-A box?

By saying your independent, you belittle the whole movement

Real emcee’s 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 emcee that can’t freestyle?

All those references to imaginary emcee’s, come battle me

Remember in Boston, you starting calling fools out?

And when emcee’s tried to battle, you were the first to break out

Well, you surely don’t wanna battle, of course you wanna 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 emcee’s

Traded in your Kani and X hats for a fresh set of Echo’s and Adidas

You as hip hop as Garth Brooks and as manly as gartar belts

And if you’re so creative, talk about something other than yourself

No, I’m not dissing New York or any of your comrades in arms

I’m tearing down that posterboy Miss Piggy-lookin’ leprachaun

El-Pee vs. The Spice Girls (I got 5 on scary spice)

But both of y’all are in desperate need of backup singers when it’s live

And I know they think you’re original but follow me through this portal

You bit your whole styles from an underground emcee named Vordul

Spread rumors about me to everyone you meet, evade being a man

I heard you’re putting out an instrumental album of sitars, pots and pans

You’ve done enough talking, so I know you ain’t fading Sole

Have your boy Rupert Murdock fly you out, I’ll serve you on the Wake Up Show

The red-headed 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 outta tootsie roll under your rock, your two minutes of fame got cut short

FYI: starving artists don’t have corporate luncheons

Got a horrible freestyle 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 1-on 1 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 mouths like my wax from the racks of (phat beats)

Fat ego’s inflated, hope you liked my little poem

And hope to hear from you soon, signed, your friend, Sole