I have a dream of a scene between the green hills
Clouds pull away and the sunlight's revealed
People don't talk about keeping it real
It's understood that they actually will
And intoxicated and stimulated emcees
Staring in the trees, paranoid, are gone in the breeze
Watch them flee, hip-hop hits
Take a walk with me and what you'll see
Is a land where the sand is made up of crushed up wax
And the sky beyond you is krylon blue
And everybody speaks in a dialect of rhyme
And emcees have left materialism behind them ...