While emcees were burning ism I earned degrees in journalism
Learning the system and about how freedom of speech is worth killing for
But watch what you say in all those interviews!
You're in limbo? WELL WE'RE IN LIMBO TOO!
Contact the dead to get advice from Anne Landers
Transmit personal problems like head lice in bandanas
The big man on campus has delusions of grandure
Doing a thesis on ebonics, unconsciously using poor grammar
Your mannerisms are suitable to cancer victims
How much opposition does it take for your stance or position
To dance to this rhythm? (you're jignorant, baby!)
Dance to this rhythm. (Go ahead, baby!)
Ah, forget it. It's actually accepted for rappers to have no ethics
Their albums would benefit if they put in half the effort
I attended candle light vigils for Matthew Sheppard
While you put out another "f*ck you, faggot" record
That Ain't Right
I blame my hate mail on typographical errors
Correct the mispellings and then send out thank you notes for the love letters
Accept rejection when I get a return to sender
Reject acceptance when the girl's got an agenda
I've entered this Brave New World of true cowards
Talkin' 'bout, "No one goes to shows no more. They're too crowded."
So they stay home and burn shit
Then they say, "I downloaded your life off the net. Totally worth it."
It's 2003. Time to stop acting like assholes
It ain't about backpackers or cash flow
Fashionable afros, salon style dreds or frat clothes
And it ain't about these f*ckin' loud mouths shoutin, "BATTLE!"
African medalions didn't sell platinum albums
That's part of the reason why you think hiphop died
It was here before you were. It'll be here in the future
Life's not a bitch, she's just sick of being personified
That Ain't Right
This household is filled with the half-deads
They've got a mouthfull of pills because they're crack heads
They shout that I'm ill, but they're doubtful of skill
With the type of stabbing that turns my back red
I don't blast lead, I write until my pen explodes
All over fashion dreds and your Echo clothes
I don't listen when they say, "Shit ain't ever gonna change,"
and they say I ain't got no soooooouuuuuul.
Non-Prophets - That Aint Right Lyrics
Non-Prophets - That Aint Right Lyrics
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We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
While emcees were burning ism I earned degrees in journalism
Learning the system and about how freedom of speech is worth killing for
But watch what you say in all those interviews!
You're in limbo? WELL WE'RE IN LIMBO TOO!
Contact the dead to get advice from Anne Landers
Transmit personal problems like head lice in bandanas
The big man on campus has delusions of grandure
Doing a thesis on ebonics, unconsciously using poor grammar
Your mannerisms are suitable to cancer victims
How much opposition does it take for your stance or position
To dance to this rhythm? (you're jignorant, baby!)
Dance to this rhythm. (Go ahead, baby!)
Ah, forget it. It's actually accepted for rappers to have no ethics
Their albums would benefit if they put in half the effort
I attended candle light vigils for Matthew Sheppard
While you put out another "f*ck you, faggot" record
That Ain't Right
I blame my hate mail on typographical errors
Correct the mispellings and then send out thank you notes for the love letters
Accept rejection when I get a return to sender
Reject acceptance when the girl's got an agenda
I've entered this Brave New World of true cowards
Talkin' 'bout, "No one goes to shows no more. They're too crowded."
So they stay home and burn shit
Then they say, "I downloaded your life off the net. Totally worth it."
It's 2003. Time to stop acting like assholes
It ain't about backpackers or cash flow
Fashionable afros, salon style dreds or frat clothes
And it ain't about these f*ckin' loud mouths shoutin, "BATTLE!"
African medalions didn't sell platinum albums
That's part of the reason why you think hiphop died
It was here before you were. It'll be here in the future
Life's not a bitch, she's just sick of being personified
That Ain't Right
This household is filled with the half-deads
They've got a mouthfull of pills because they're crack heads
They shout that I'm ill, but they're doubtful of skill
With the type of stabbing that turns my back red
I don't blast lead, I write until my pen explodes
All over fashion dreds and your Echo clothes
I don't listen when they say, "Shit ain't ever gonna change,"
and they say I ain't got no soooooouuuuuul.
Learning the system and about how freedom of speech is worth killing for
But watch what you say in all those interviews!
You're in limbo? WELL WE'RE IN LIMBO TOO!
Contact the dead to get advice from Anne Landers
Transmit personal problems like head lice in bandanas
The big man on campus has delusions of grandure
Doing a thesis on ebonics, unconsciously using poor grammar
Your mannerisms are suitable to cancer victims
How much opposition does it take for your stance or position
To dance to this rhythm? (you're jignorant, baby!)
Dance to this rhythm. (Go ahead, baby!)
Ah, forget it. It's actually accepted for rappers to have no ethics
Their albums would benefit if they put in half the effort
I attended candle light vigils for Matthew Sheppard
While you put out another "f*ck you, faggot" record
That Ain't Right
I blame my hate mail on typographical errors
Correct the mispellings and then send out thank you notes for the love letters
Accept rejection when I get a return to sender
Reject acceptance when the girl's got an agenda
I've entered this Brave New World of true cowards
Talkin' 'bout, "No one goes to shows no more. They're too crowded."
So they stay home and burn shit
Then they say, "I downloaded your life off the net. Totally worth it."
It's 2003. Time to stop acting like assholes
It ain't about backpackers or cash flow
Fashionable afros, salon style dreds or frat clothes
And it ain't about these f*ckin' loud mouths shoutin, "BATTLE!"
African medalions didn't sell platinum albums
That's part of the reason why you think hiphop died
It was here before you were. It'll be here in the future
Life's not a bitch, she's just sick of being personified
That Ain't Right
This household is filled with the half-deads
They've got a mouthfull of pills because they're crack heads
They shout that I'm ill, but they're doubtful of skill
With the type of stabbing that turns my back red
I don't blast lead, I write until my pen explodes
All over fashion dreds and your Echo clothes
I don't listen when they say, "Shit ain't ever gonna change,"
and they say I ain't got no soooooouuuuuul.
Writer: ROBERT BERKELEY, STUART JOHN CRICHTON, GEORGE EVELYN HERBERT, ROBIN TAYLOR-FIRTH, CHRISTOPHER TOSNEY
Copyright: Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG Rights Management, WORDS & MUSIC A DIV OF BIG DEAL MUSIC LLC
Copyright: Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG Rights Management, WORDS & MUSIC A DIV OF BIG DEAL MUSIC LLC