"Yeah Kool Keith should keep it real

He should rap about space and Mars..."

[Kool Keith]

Yo I'm tired of looking at everybody. Same boots skully hats in

90 degree weather looking to get into clubs for free. I'm not

smoking blunts or looking for jazz records at the Roosevelt.

I left New York the city itself was stress depression

High boots and urban beats that wasn't my direction

Producers filtering join in with R&B

A million rappers, some clones trying to sound like me

Biting my space styles, biting my horror-core

All I saw was Kool Keiths on my thaw

Record companies had G'd-off all my royalties

Watching vinyl spin, local groups' wack MC's

Some try to rap with that perpetrate mobster crap

Karl Kani jeans, fat stomachs in the limosines

Mixtapes by wack DJ's adds doo doo play

I'm on the turnpike, the city drifting down the highway

Like a mirage, the style there is all illusion

On videos out of town, peoples buy confusion

Rolling high with cash pulled over down my eye

Since I've been out, y'all can't see

Chorus:

Is the world made of plastic?

Is the city buried in dreams? (Yeah)

Is the world made of plastic?

Cause that's the way is seems (Owww)

Watching TV so bored, while imbiciles hold the mic cord

Graffiti playgrounds are played out, yo how'd that sound?

Army fatigues are weak, is for the minor leagues

No rapping cyphers or brothers in the rented Benz

Crews on stage, acting hard with a thousand friends

I saw the place turn plastic, crackers looping beats

People with no deals, walkmen rappin on the streets

I turned my back, 90% of the city sounded wack

Payola scams switched DJ's like