"Wake Me When I'm Dead" lyrics
(feat. Masta Ace)
Boom!
Am I dead yet?
I don't think so
Masta Ace in the place
Oh, what a night, yo, that I've just been through
I barely made it home from this hip-hop venue
These two guys, no three guys, no four, no, this posse
Try to fake a move and bumrush me like a Nazi
Underground club where the kids smell like odors
I almost got an avalanche dropped on my shoulders
'Cause I writes the fat raps and kids memorize 'em
I tries, um, this new style and, boy, did I surprise 'em
They said "Yo, that's too hype. Yo, who's he think he is?
He's supposed to be commercial like that song about the Biz"
The kid said "Masta Ace, yo, what's the deal wit' the switchin'?"
He's bitchin', didn't like the rap I was pitchin'
You see, he was a rapper wit' a single about to drop
His record label told him that he had to make it pop
Take it from me, Jack, you're sadly mistaken
A lot of record labels been tryin' to get the bacon
By makin' a brother into somethin' he is not and
You're better of a dammer on a farm pickin' cotton
They mold ya and shape ya, they bend and they twist ya
They get paid like quick fast, and that's when they diss ya
So homeboy, you're better off comin' from the heart
And lettin' the kids put your record on the chart
You must use your head and forget what they said
'Cause in about a year, you'll be like "Wake me when I'm dead"
(Wake up!)
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies...
If this was an opera, I'd probably say Figaro
Black kid from Brooklyn, but don't call me nigga, though
I rocks the jams for the young population
I wonder, I wonder, can I change the nation?
It's futile, so I try, it's hopeless, yeah, maybe
But I can't sit home and write Ice, Ice Baby
'Cause if it comes down to, I must have a pocket
I go get a day-job and rappin', I'll stop it
I'm never goin' out, so, yo, firm I am standin'
'Cause my jams are fat like a cop named Canon
My rap is for the mind, it's nutritious
My word is final, the vinyl is delicious
So face it as if it was a hot fudge sundae
Or I'll come get mine, I guess maybe one day
I gotta work hard and must use my head
You'll never hit the point, I'm sayin' "Wake me when I'm dead"
(Wake up!)
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies...
Wake me when I'm dead, aiyo, wake me when I'm dead
'Cause life is like a nightmare, I'm gonna lose my head
So I make the jams that'll make me feel better
I hear a lot of groups that be cheesier than cheddar
But this jam is well built like '57 Chevies
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies
So weight is on ya, underground scalin'
We be prevailin' while others be failin'
I'm hailin' from Brooklyn and I strive for the ends
But I don't need a Bimmer and I don't need a Benz
Still, I get respect for the style I'll be choosin'
Rappin' to the soul kind of jazz-like fusion
I'm cruisin', not for a bruisin', but I'll break up
Anythin' that's ballin' like an L.A. Laker
So I rocks the West Coast as well as the city, yo
I got crazy Flava like a P.E. video
Plus I got a lot of, um, skill and that's word, Akh
What, battle? Who, me, G? You're crazier than Murdoch
Instead of confrontin', you oughta be checkin'
The time 'cause it's wastin', second after second
You're so busy rippin' and darin' kids to shoot ya
Accordin' to the Jetsons, there's no blacks in the future
You better wake up before you're in over your head
Tomorrow, you'll be screamin' "Wake me when I'm dead!"
(Wake up!)
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies...
Am I dead yet?
I don't think so
Masta Ace in the place
Oh, what a night, yo, that I've just been through
I barely made it home from this hip-hop venue
These two guys, no three guys, no four, no, this posse
Try to fake a move and bumrush me like a Nazi
Underground club where the kids smell like odors
I almost got an avalanche dropped on my shoulders
'Cause I writes the fat raps and kids memorize 'em
I tries, um, this new style and, boy, did I surprise 'em
They said "Yo, that's too hype. Yo, who's he think he is?
He's supposed to be commercial like that song about the Biz"
The kid said "Masta Ace, yo, what's the deal wit' the switchin'?"
He's bitchin', didn't like the rap I was pitchin'
You see, he was a rapper wit' a single about to drop
His record label told him that he had to make it pop
Take it from me, Jack, you're sadly mistaken
A lot of record labels been tryin' to get the bacon
By makin' a brother into somethin' he is not and
You're better of a dammer on a farm pickin' cotton
They mold ya and shape ya, they bend and they twist ya
They get paid like quick fast, and that's when they diss ya
So homeboy, you're better off comin' from the heart
And lettin' the kids put your record on the chart
You must use your head and forget what they said
'Cause in about a year, you'll be like "Wake me when I'm dead"
(Wake up!)
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies...
If this was an opera, I'd probably say Figaro
Black kid from Brooklyn, but don't call me nigga, though
I rocks the jams for the young population
I wonder, I wonder, can I change the nation?
It's futile, so I try, it's hopeless, yeah, maybe
But I can't sit home and write Ice, Ice Baby
'Cause if it comes down to, I must have a pocket
I go get a day-job and rappin', I'll stop it
I'm never goin' out, so, yo, firm I am standin'
'Cause my jams are fat like a cop named Canon
My rap is for the mind, it's nutritious
My word is final, the vinyl is delicious
So face it as if it was a hot fudge sundae
Or I'll come get mine, I guess maybe one day
I gotta work hard and must use my head
You'll never hit the point, I'm sayin' "Wake me when I'm dead"
(Wake up!)
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies...
Wake me when I'm dead, aiyo, wake me when I'm dead
'Cause life is like a nightmare, I'm gonna lose my head
So I make the jams that'll make me feel better
I hear a lot of groups that be cheesier than cheddar
But this jam is well built like '57 Chevies
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies
So weight is on ya, underground scalin'
We be prevailin' while others be failin'
I'm hailin' from Brooklyn and I strive for the ends
But I don't need a Bimmer and I don't need a Benz
Still, I get respect for the style I'll be choosin'
Rappin' to the soul kind of jazz-like fusion
I'm cruisin', not for a bruisin', but I'll break up
Anythin' that's ballin' like an L.A. Laker
So I rocks the West Coast as well as the city, yo
I got crazy Flava like a P.E. video
Plus I got a lot of, um, skill and that's word, Akh
What, battle? Who, me, G? You're crazier than Murdoch
Instead of confrontin', you oughta be checkin'
The time 'cause it's wastin', second after second
You're so busy rippin' and darin' kids to shoot ya
Accordin' to the Jetsons, there's no blacks in the future
You better wake up before you're in over your head
Tomorrow, you'll be screamin' "Wake me when I'm dead!"
(Wake up!)
The Masta, the Ace and the Brand New, the Heavies...
Writer(s): Jan Kincaid, Andrew Levy, Simon Bartholomew, D. Clear
