dear el-pee, how's your summer been?
mine's been fine. i heard you had a real good time at camp.
oh, yeah, i talked to len, he said everything's cool.
oh, yo, i really liked "end to end burner."
that little 'diss me' thing on the internet was pretty funny.
yeah it's live sucker. uh, yeah, and i was talking, ya know,
trying to sell my records to distributors,
and they wouldn't take it because, you know,
some fat white kid figured it'd be funny to blackball.
well, you know, i wrote a little poem about it,
and i really hope you like it.
so have your mother read it to you,
and if you guys like it you can write me back.

i'm a anticon iconoclast catalyst for cataclysm.
tell fox dissing sole, bad executive decision.
your egosystem's frail, with a spoon i could dissect it,
soundin' like corky got his nubs on a websters dictionary,
a ras kass record, and a brand new mpc.
pressing all them pretty buttons making wack beats.
to hell with phat beats, i'd rather rock acapella,
i'd rather be broke and have a whole 'lotta resent.
not a rich king, a pawn, a peon for me to pee on.
check out 9th street, a big sign, el-pee got served in neon.
trendy indie underground 'cause you haven't got a choice,
take away your elitist buddies and you haven't got a voice.
no five thousand for radio, no hundred thou for ads and banners,
no paying record stores for all your rawkus propaganda.
well-timed marketing scheme, it's cool to be independent,
but if it was last year you'd be a dunn or a missy elliot.
and after your indie bravado and the label has recouped,
you're broker than when libra left you crying for a record deal from luke.
i strike you awestruck you feminine to blackball,
i'll be serving you 'til you're serving me ice cream in a mall.
some fool said this is an underground canibus and ll,
well that's comedy, 'cause i'll serve all three of y'all.
heard rupert had to starve all the indie artists to feed your ego,
running around the bay looking for sole with your foot in your mouth.
i heard you like the bay (castro) but think four tracks are wack,
lost in the ozone and all your mixdowns sound like crap.
hiding lack of intellect behind hipster catch phrase and babble,
indellibles'll never get a full-length 'cause you don't wanna be outshined.
fine, i heard you wanna kill me and get fools after me,
the only violence you ever witnessed was on menace ii society.
try to sound deep and got masses fooled by your lack of rhythm,
i elevate while you perpetuate your malo-propism.

yo, wha, what did he just call me dunn?
yo, i don't know man.
yo, i, i don't know what he just called you man.
well, yo, go get the books, go get the bible.
yo, man, well apparently you must have ripped all the pages
out in the dictionary man, 'cause you've used all the words.
so i'm never gonna find out what he called me?
he's usin' big words against me?
yo, this is intrepid god.

i'm a hip hop artist, you style biting emcee sucker,
had a crayon contest with retarted kids and picked the wackest album cover.
picked the wrong emcee to diss subliminally, every line dissected,
yeah, i diss you on the internet, to your face, and on record.
for the record, i know the muck from which out you have stepped,
first you sound like beatnuts, then you're mr. 4,000 syllables,
one bar, out of breath, on stage a failure.
gotta quit rockin' mics and start rockin' an asthma inhaler.
el-producto, independent as fuck,
since when do indie records show up in a w-e-a box?
by saying your independent, you belittle the whole movement,
real emcee's work hard, ain't got investors to put out their music.
underground conspiracy, but this ain't used by no limit,
mad 'cause you didn't blow up, the victim of your own wack gimmick.
but some fools bought into it 'cause they don't know no better,
that you're a hamburger pimp, only out for the cheddar.

yo, what's a battle emcee that can't freestyle?
all those references to imaginary emcee's, come battle me.
remember in boston, you starting calling fools out?
and when emcee's tried to battle, you were the first to break out.
well, you surely don't wanna battle, of course you wanna fight, you're bigger,
fine, you win, we can have a contest to see who's the biggest wigger.
oh, you win again, it must feel great, i heard you don't like white emcees,
traded in your khani and x hats for a fresh set of echo's and adidas.
you as hip hop as garth brooks and as manly as gartar belts,
and if you're so creative, talk about something other than yourself.
no, i'm not dissing new york or any of your comrades in arms,
i'm tearing down that posterboy miss piggy-lookin' leprachaun.
el-pee vs. the spice girls (i got 5 on scary spice),
but both of y'all are in desperate need of backup singers when it's live.
and i know they think you're original but follow me through this portal,
you bit your whole style from an underground emcee named vordul.
spread rumors about me to everyone you meet, evade being a man,
i heard you're putting out an instrumental album of sitars, pots, and pans.
you've done enough talking, so i know you ain't fading sole,
have your boy rupert murdock fly you out, i'll serve you on the wake up show.
the red-headed kingpin, step child to a little herpe sore festering,
heard you only pull females when you tell'em you're a lesbian.
wanna sign autographs, but all your fans are rappers,
the evolution will not be televised, as your #1 fan becomes your master.
i'd love to give you a hand but all i got is a middle finger,
farakhan won't squash this, so we can finish it on jerry springer.
newsweek martyr, bring your rhetoric retort,
you outta tootsie roll under your rock, your two minutes of fame got cut short.
fyi, starving artists don't have corporate luncheons,
got a horrible freestyle and the rest of your style is (studio punch-ins).
the dunn-crusher busts fresh overly when i blast 'em,
and those so-called freestyles, they all popped up on your album.
manipulate your connects so they wanna see me on a curb,
but i guarantee you lyin' 'cause you know 1-on-1 you'd get served.
now it's time to pay dues like when daddy warbucks
bought your face onto the cover of the last stress.
we gonna battle, so write your rhymes ahead of time
and i'll still come twice as fresh,
and keep it all in the family, like rose, i'll take a back seat,
keep my name out your mouth like my wax from the racks of (phat beats).
fat ego's inflated, hope you liked my little poem,
and hope to hear from you soon, signed, your friend, sole.