Show Lyrics

L.A. Symphony - Dreamin'
(from the album The End Is Now)
© copyright 2003

UNO MAS:
It’s style out of control, out of the hands that shape the mold
It’s now dwelling in that place where the stories all get old
And the realness never told, too much money’s in the fold
Emcees selling out their soul for a record to get sold
Ain’t it funny how these things always seem to go around
It’s like a virus or a plague that keeps messing up the sound
Fools be talking major trash but in your face they want to pound
Scared to go around without a bodyguard surround
So you sold it all for nothing while we ask you, “Where’s the substance?”
Too much empty talk, fake emcees come in abundance
Don’t you hate all that redundance, it’s quite laughable today
It’s quite approble to say, “Hope it dies and goes away”
You can look up to the clouds, you can look into the sky
You can ask the reason why, but it’s Him we can’t deny
Let the music take control and may it see a brighter day
While we raise it to the stars, letting God show us the way

CHORUS:
You’re dreaming, you’re really not that type
You can’t rock a crowd, you can’t rock the mic
You’re dreaming, come back to earth
You think you got a lot, but what’s it really worth
You’re dreaming, stuck on cloud nine
You need to face reality, you really can’t rhyme
You’re dreaming, you think you’re so fresh
But haven’t done a show, haven’t sold yet

FLYNN:
You say you’re going to come up and that it’s your time to shine
But I hear nothing from you, a waste of time
A waste of breath at the pace of a next lifetime
It’s safe to have said you’ve straddled a fine line
A complete failure, claiming genius to a fool
But your efforts are nothing more than levels of grade school
Still live with your mom and she makes you lunch and dinner
Pats you on the back and says you’re gonna be a winner
But you’ve nothing to claim, merit in this rap game
I mention your name and they all say that you’re lame
Wacker than wack, you make and optimist complain
It’s sadder than sad, I would have blown out my brains
I guess you’re cool with it, you just chill with a Coke
Hating on Rap City, saying that you’re way more dope
Once you get a record deal and it falls into your lap
But dude get real, it don’t go down like that

CHORUS

COOKBOOK:
Dream on, it’s time to wake up from the Matrix
Your debates are faithless, time to get back to the basics
Face the fact that you’re tasteless, tattered and tired
Come on, you’re not admired, your late pass has expired
And I’m the hall monitor, send you to the office
My off the top of the head is better than your whole synopsis
To sum it up, even though you’re coming up
Whether you’re bad or running rough, the aftermath will run it up
To let you know that Biggie Smalls called, he wants his style back
I liked your album better when it was called “Ready to Die” mac
Come on player, quit listening to Big Pimpin’
Quit listening to your homeboys when they tell you, man, it’s hitting
Manifest some writtens that go beyond average description
Go beyond cash, cars, and women, to a road that’s not so driven
And given the fact that I’ve now painted the scenario
You and your tribe should hit that Quest for a better flow

CHORUS

(And all that gibberish you were spittin' you need to kill it)
(Believe me son) (My advice, quit talking, it’s over)
(Cuz your style is like dying in my sleep, I don’t feel it)