A Tribe Called Quest is a hip-hop group from Queens, New York. They are considered one of the pioneers of alternative rap.
This song was included on We got it from Here... Thank You 4 Your Service, A Tribe Called Quest's sixth album. The song features a verse from group member Phife Dawg, who died in March 2016, before the album's completion. Of the song, Q-Tip said, "We’re just lovely musicians and artists and that’s all we do, is speak and paint pictures and try to speak to a climate but hopefully we will call some sort of uprising internally in that young Jimmy Carter and that young Angela Davis. Hopefully we will, ‘cause that’s the type of thing we do. And that’s why 'We The People...’ is more of an encompassing and not just us—it’s all of us as people."
We don't believe you 'cause we the people Are still here in the rear, ayo, we don't need you You in the killing-off-good-young-nigga mood When we get hungry we eat the same fucking food The ramen noodle Your simple voodoo is so maniacal, we're liable to pull a juju The irony is that this bad bitch in my lap She don't love me, she make money, she don't study that She gon' give it to me, ain't gon' tell me run it back She gon' take the brain to wetter plains, she spit on that The doors have signs with, don't try to rhyme with VH1 has a show that you can waste your time with Guilty pleasures take the edge off reality And for a salary I'd probably do that shit sporadically The OG Gucci boots are smitten with iguanas The IRS piranha see a nigga gettin' commas Niggas in the hood living in a fishbowl Gentrify here, now it's not a shit hole Trendsetter, I know, my shit's cold Ain't settling because I ain't so bold but ay All you Black folks, you must go All you Mexicans, you must go And all you poor folks, you must go Muslims and gays, boy, we hate your ways So all you bad folks, you must go The fog and the smog of news media that logs False narratives of Gods that came up against the odds We're not just nigga rappers with the bars It's kismet that we're cosmic with the stars You bastards overlooking street art Better yet, street smarts but you keep us off the charts So motherfuck your numbers and your statisticians Fuck y'all know about true competition? That's like a AL pitcher on deck talking about he hittin' The only one who's hitting are the ones that's currently spittin' We got your missy smitten rubbing on her little kitten Dreaming of a world that's equal for women with no division Boy, I tell you that's vision Like Tony Romo when he hitting Witten The Tribe be the best in they division Shaheed Muhammad cut it with precision Who can come back years later, still hit the shot? Still them tryna move we off the fucking block Babylon, bloodclot Two pon yuh headtop All you Black folks, you must go All you Mexicans, you must go And all you poor folks, you must go Muslims and gays, boy, we hate your ways So all you bad folks, you must go