Woorden: Hard Knocks. School Of Hard Knocks. Nigga For Hire.

(You can march like the white man
you can talk like him, you can - you can learn his songs
you can - you can even wear his suits
but you ain't never gon' be nothin to him but a ugly-ass chimp)

(Blackman)
(Don't sell out)

[ VERSE 1: Hardhead ]
Put yourself in the shoes of my color
In a position of power we're known to turn on one another
We're seen wherever 'help wanted' signs are hung
Slave driven to get a white man's job done
We're likely to take jobs at the welfare
Behind the desk lookin down on the poor from a leather chair
Nose turned up and givin orders
To someone's young black teenage daughter
Starin her down like she's a tramp
At the same time explainin why you cut off her food stamps
A black race that needs therapy
Cause the workplace is now a modern day slavery
Tryin to gain brownie points and respect
Frontin when the government's also signin your check
When the boss says "fetch" you bring
It's like, "Give it to Mikey, he'll eat anything"
With the idiotic grin of a moron
Dissin your color over a book of damn coupons
Get a grip is my personal gesture
These type of blacks should be buried like a treasure
So many blacks you'll burn till the day you retire
You're just another nigga for hire

(Don't sell out)
(Don't sell out)
(Don't sell out)
(Blackman)
(Don't sell out)

[VERSE 2: Hardhead]
Starin out the window as I gaze in wonder
How these negro cops are takin their own kind under
A gun, a badge and a dark color uniform
Makes me wonder what kinda dope cops be on
Friday night and the corner's buckwild
Two cops pull up wearing a cemetary smile
Before questioning the oreo's makin a scene
Got a brother's balls split searchin my jeans
Only to find a hard dick
And for that I'm publicly pistol-whipped
Mr. Ritz Cracker enjoys the scenery
I'm handcuffed and put in the backseat
I'm out in a heartbeat, right back on the street
A brother of six but number six is a black sheep
What the officer did was totally apparent
A color of black but that bullshit was transparent
These types are not hard to come by or get
Ass-kissers to protect a paycheck
Gomer Pyle stays behind the steering wheel
Leavin homicides to him, rapes and drug deals
9 times out of 10 their own color they're killin
Pullin his piece on seven year old children
Gimme a break, these types need coffins
It sounds comical but I grew up around orphans
Leftover-ass lawmen, their time to expire
These niggas for hire

(Don't sell out)
(Don't sell out)
(Don't sell out)
(Blackman)
(Don't sell out)

[VERSE 3: Hardhead]
Girlfriend was cute and fine
But one thing: the bitch was color blind
She said she went to Harvard
I met her at a time when you could say I was starvin
But I had a talent in rappin
Seemed like overnight shit started happenin
She took me home to meet her folks
Right away pops quoted corny shit Shakespeare wrote
Mom sits down to the table
And gives me a autographed picture of Clark Gable?
They reminded me of my last name
Considered themselves upperclassmen but a bunch of lames
Father and daughter eatin caviar
When I'm thinkin of makin the daugher my personal porn star
I'm sure her parents knew I wanted to knock her
This Mary Lou Retton type of a girl who was too proper
To be my complexion
She was, but never felt a real nigga's erection
We had chemistry for the formula I was fixin
When we got togeher I felt like I was race-mixin
So I ended the affair not with a bang but a nut
I liked everything about her till her mouth opened up
I cut her off to avoid slappin her
A perfect couple but one color was out of character
What's these type of people's desire
Another sample of a nigga for hire

(Don't sell out)
(Don't sell out)
(Don't sell out)
(Blackman)
(Don't sell out)

(Nigga, you ain't nothin but the white man's dog)
(Don't sell out)
(Blackman)
(Don't sell out)
(Nigga, you ain't nothin but the white man's dog)
(Don't sell out)
(Blackman)
(Don't sell out)