I Stand Accused Lyrics - Muse Sick-n-hour Mess Age - Public Enemy

I see I'm peeking out ready to rumble 

So now I'm speaking out 

Against those that flip the way the story goes 

One never knows 

Who be flippin' the script whatever the traitors name 

My aim is dunk 'em like, I'm Chris Webber 

So many phony smilin' faces 

Traces of slander got 'em comin' outta funny places 

I had it an' hear 'em talkin' loud behind my back 

What was good for the hood ts what they say is wack 

I take the stabbin' and grin then I'm hit 

'Cause I know the suckas smile when I leave 'em, what I'm comin' wit 

I can't complain about the money, although the suckas in the back 

They talkin' shit an' laughin' like it's somethin' funny 

I aim to make changes an' never change unless its for the better 

'Cause I always been a go better, clean hustler 

Rhyme instead of muscle ya 

Born when ya thinkin' I'm gone 

The terror era is on 

I stand accused to the crews, I paid my dues 

I stand accused, I refuse to stand and lose 

I stand accused to the news I kick the blues 

I stand accused, I refuse 

I hear 'em talkin' and walkin' behind my back I'm attacked 

Fuck the knife in the back 'cause it feels like they got an ax 

Yeah, I can dig it wit a shovel, I never dig dirt wit the devil 

Instead I'm on that other level 

But I took time to reach down to help the black and brown 

I never stood around, I hear 'em talkin' behind my mind 

In a ocean of sharks and a back full a hack marks 

They say I'm fallin' off, yeah, they better call it off 

And get muscle and find another hustle quick 

Sick n' tired of critics but I can take a hit 

I'm all man alley oopin' the vocal on jams 

But they don't know it they can blow it 

And take a puff of dis joint, I see I'm kissin' it off the cuff 

Behind the back, I'm pullin' axes and blades out the arms and the legs 

Still my fellas get paid the terror era is on 

Fuck a critic, fuck, fuck a critic, all the fuckin' critics 

Can get the did it, all a fuckin' critic does is 

Draw a fuckin' line cross a line and dis my rhyme 

And then they ass is mine, if you find a critic dead 

Remember what I said, "Who killed a critic?" 

Guess the crew did it, day paybacks a crazy ass message 

Sent to the writers who criticize they're fuckin' wit a freedom fighter 

Who raises flags and dragged the Klan in body bags 

I hung 'em up in Mississippi and bum fuck 

This is Chuck so what the hell, you think I did it for 

To open doors from Carolina to Arkansas 

And lemme let 'em, I met 'em, I told my boys forget 'em 

An' what they did got rid of me, negative 

But 94 got stunts and blunts in the mix 

I hear the crowd fallin' Vic to old ghetto tricks 

But if I wasn't your cousin, wed leave 'em in the dozens 

Of sellin' out and bellin' out, half pint 40 ounce 

Announce to the rest we had a fall out 

I never took a drink, never took a hit or bribe 

Or got spread by what a silly rumor said, never sang or gang banged 

Sold out or rented hip hop 'cause I know when to stop