Underdogs

[Hook: Supastition & Shylow]
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

[Verse 1: Supastition]
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

[Hook]

[Verse 2: Shylow]
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

[Hook]

[Outro: Matter Ov Fact of The Doppelgangaz]
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