HIP HOP: DEAD PREZ ACCOUSTIC Chords used: (all barre) A7--C7--E7---- repeat...(sounds coolest/ different style to song than the recording) OR: (all barre) A--C7--E7---- repeat...(sounds just as good more accurate) Key: ^-fast up/down stroke h-hammer on each line represents a beat. ^ e|----5--3--7----55--3--7----| B|----5--3--7----55--3--7----| G|----6--3--7----66--3--7----| D|----5--5--9----55--5--9----| A|5h7-7--3--7----77--3--7----| E|----5--3--7----55--3--7----| repeat for whole song OR much more simply: ^ e|----5--3--7----5--3--7----| B|----5--3--7----5--3--7----| G|----6--3--7----6--3--7----| D|----6--5--9----6--5--9----| A|----7--3--7----7--3--7----| E|----5--3--7----5--3--7----| i prefer to tap all the strings with the side of my hand called a Slap. on each beat in But this isn't necessary.. LYRICS: Fake, fake records Uh, uh, uh, 1, 2, 1, 2 Uh, uh, 1, 2, 1, 2, uh, uh All my dogs It's bigger than hip hop, hip hop, hip hop, hip It's bigger than hip hop, hip hop, hip hop, hip hop Uh, one thing 'bout music When it hit you feel no pain White folks says it controls your brain I know better than that That's game and we ready for that Two soldiers head of the pack Matter of fact who got the gat? And where my army at? Rather attack than not react Back the beats it don't reflect On how many records get sold On sex, drugs, and rock and roll Whether your project's put on hold In the real world These just people with ideas They just like me and you When the smoke and camera disappear Again the real world (world) It's bigger than all these fake ass records When poor folks got the millions And my woman's disrespected If you check 1,2, My word of advice to you is just relax Just do what you got to do If that don't work then kick the facts If you a fighter, rider, lighter, flame ignitor, crowd exciter Or you wanna just get high Then just say it But then if you a liar-liar, pants on fire Wolf-cry agent with a wire I'm gon' know it when I play it It's bigger than hip hop, hip hop, hip hop, hip It's bigger than hip hop, hip hop, hip hop, hip hop Uh, who shot Biggie Smalls If we don't get them They gonna get us all I'm down for runnin' up on them Crackers in they city hall We ride for y'all All my dogs stay real Nigga don't think these record deals Gonna feed your seeds And pay your bills because they not MC's get a little bit of love and think they hot Talkin' 'bout how much money they got Nigga all y'all records sound the same I sick of that fake thug, R & B Rap scenario all day on the radio Same scenes in the video, monotonous material Y'all don't here me though These record labels slang our tapes like dope You can be next in line, and signed And still be writing rhymes and broke You would rather have a Lexus or justice A dream or some substance A Beamer, a necklace or freedom Still a nigga like me don't playa' hate I just stay awake This real hip-hop, and it don't stop 'Til we get the po-po off the block They call it Hip hop, hip hop, hip hop, hip It's bigger than hip hop, hip hop, hip hop, hip It's bigger than hip hop, hip hop, hip hop, hip It's bigger than hip hop, hip hop, hip hop DP's got that crazy shit we keep it crunk up John Blaze'd and shit what Uh, DP's got that crazy shit we keep it crunk up John Blaze'd and shit Uh, DP's got that crazy shit we keep it crunk up John Blaze'd and shit 1, 2, 1, 2 Uh, DP's got that crazy shit we keep it crunk up John Blaze'd and shit Uh, DP's got that crazy shit we keep it crunk up They call it Fake, fake, fake records
