[Intro: Suffa]
Know what I'm saying, in nineteen-seventy-nine
I was a two-year-old kid from Adelaide
I wasn't a fourteen-year-old kid from the Bronx
It seems to me that in nineteen-ninety-nine
Hip-hop's a business, in nineteen-seventy-nine it's culture
And I miss it

[Verse 1: Suffa]
You're so fake, it's plain to see who you truly are
Looking less like a b-boy, more like a movie star
Forget the funk and go hook up those disco breaks
Sit down punk and take a look at what you make
It's not hip-hop, it's something more sad, sick and seedy
What's popping that Gucci got to do with graffiti?
And your R&B dance-steps, what about finger-popping
B-boy electric shocking, windmills, body rocking?
So body-body rock, body-body rock, I take it back
Break your back, realise b-boys aren't faking that
Funk that you've forgotten hoe, how could you have gotten so
Far gone that you could never stop and go
Back to the roots, nineteen-seventy-nine
Birth place of the scratch, birth place of the rhyme
Feel it in your spine like your first taste of wine
We'll make it back; it'll just take some time
[Hook: Suffa]
Remember Kangol hats, fat laces and lino mats
Kids spinning on their backs to the Sugarhill wax
Now the sugar hills collapsed and the sweets turned sour
Money's walking my culture through its darkest hour
Now I wanna take you back, walk along through time
I was two years old in nineteen-seventy-nine
But it's a time that I miss; you ask "What's the difference?"
Hip-hop was then a culture, now hip-hop's a business

[Turntablism: DJ Next]
"The—The music—The—The—The music
The—The—The music—The—The—The music
The—The—The music—The—The—The music
The music of our youth
From—From nineteen—From—From—From nineteen
Nine—Nine—Nineteen-seventy-nine
Nine—Nineteen-seven—Nineteen-sev—
Nineteen-sev—sev—seventy-nine

[Verse 2: Suffa]
Zulu's started b-boying as a form of expression
To channel youths stress and their aggression, now through the suggestion
Of record companies MC's are pumping these
Problems back into your section (And isn't it ironic?)
But not the sort that makes you laugh
'Cause MC's are building futures by raping the past
Taking a glass of Chardonnay and putting it to your lips
I'd rather take a razor blade and put it to my wrist
Than sell records on the basis that I have to promote
Sniffing and selling coke, toting guns and smoking dope
You're all weaving the rope that you'll hang yourself with
My only consolation is within the hip-hop nation is
B-boy elements that could still get me open
Like Graff mags from Berlin, mixtapes from Oakland
Breakers from Rock Steady, plus anything from Tribe
And old school New York that's still got the vibe
[Hook: Suffa]
Remember Kangol hats, fat laces and lino mats
Kids spinning on their backs to the Sugarhill wax
Now the sugar hills collapsed and the sweets turned sour
Money's walking my culture through its darkest hour
Now I wanna take you back, walk along through time
I was two years old in nineteen-seventy-nine
But it's a time that I miss; you ask "What's the difference?"
Hip-hop was then a culture, now hip-hop's a business

[Turntablism: DJ Next]
"The—The music—The—The—The music
The—The—The music—The—The—The music
The—The—The music—The—The—The music
The music of our youth
From—From nineteen—From—From—From nineteen
From—From nineteen—From—From—From nineteen
Nine—Nineteen-seven—Nineteen-sev—
Nineteen-sev—sev—seventy-nine