"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 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, y'know, trying to

sell my record distributors and they wouldn't take it because, you know, some

fat white kid was thinkin' 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 iconclast 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 Webster's dictionary

A Ras Kass record and a brand new MPC

Pressing all them pretty buttons, making wack beats

To hell with Fat Beats, I'd rather rock acapella

I'd rather be broke and have a whole lot 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 a way 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 dun 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 femanine to blackball

I'll be serving you 'til you're serving me ice cream in a mall

Some fool said this 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 4 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 malopropism



[Yo, wha, what did he just call me, dun?]

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've 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 MC sucker

Had a Crayon contest with retarted kids and picked the wackest album cover

Picked the wrong MC 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 rocking mics and start rocking an asthma inhaler

El-Producto: indepenent as Fox

Since when do indie records show up in a WEA box?

By saying you're indepenent you belittle the whole movement

Real MCs 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 MC that can't freestyle?

All these references to imaginary MCs, come battle me

Remember in Boston, you started calling fools out?

And when MCs try to battle, you were the first to break out

Well, you surely don't wanna battle, of course you want to 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 MCs

Traded in your Kani and X hats for a fresh set of Echo and Adidas

You as hip hop as Garth Brooks and as manly as garter belts

And if you're so creative talk about something other than yourself

No, I'm not dissing New York or any of your comrads in arms

I'm tearing down that posterboy Miss Piggy-lookin' leprachaun

El-Pee vs. the Spice Girls (I got five on Scary Spice)

But both of y'all are in desperate need of back up singers when it's live

And I know they think your original, but follow me through this portal

You bit your whole styles from an underground MC named Vordul

Spread rumors about me to everyone you meet, evade being a man

I heard you putting out an instumental album of sitars, pots, and pans

You've done enough talking, so I know you ain't fading Sole

Have your boy Rupert Murdoch fly you out, I'll serve you on the Wake Up Show

The redheaded 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 oughta tootsie roll under your rock, your two minutes of fame got cut short

FYI: starving artists don't have corporate luncheons

Got a horrible freeestyle and the rest of your style is (studio punch-ins)

The dun 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 one-on-one 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 (Fat Beats)

Fat egos inflated, hope you liked my little poem

And hope to hear from you soon, signed, your friend, Sole