Dear Hip Hop

by Dan-e-o

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Originally intended to be an EP following the release of the now-classic single "Dear Hip Hop" in 1996, the Dear Hip Hop "album" contains Dan-e-o's mid-90s recordings. It was released as an accompaniment to his debut album, The Book of Daniel in 2000, available only to those who won a mail-in contest. The Dear Hip Hop project was remastered and re-released in 2004 including three tracks from Monolith's The Long Awaited...EP.

Buy a physical copy of the Dear Hip Hop CD here:


released February 15, 2000



all rights reserved


Dan-e-o Toronto, Ontario

Veteran MC, Dan-e-o debuted in 1996 with his first single “Dear Hip Hop” - now considered a Canadian Hip-Hop classic.

One half of the duo Perfeck Strangers with Promise, the group's debut album, "Series Premiere" dropped on URBNET Records in March 2012 and reached #1 on Canadian college radio.

His new highly anticipated and long overdue solo album, "Inevitable" is out now on URBNET Records!
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Track Name: Constipated
CHORUS (x2):
It’s about time I drop my shit!
Every bit of my skit’s seen as fit to make a hit, while niggaz trip
I got sick ‘bout all this time that I waited
Now I gotta drop my shit cuz I’ve been feeling constipated

Niggaz of all persuasions is wasting time durations on creations
The application of my vexation’s abrasions and dome inflations
My lips slips a blitz of skits with obesity
To rappers, I’m a cake that tastes like shit, they want no piece of me Please, pussies get punctured, my poems impose assumption
That nigz who big up their chest, my function’s a fuckin’ breast reduction
You suck shit, so shut your crotch licker
Think not about AIDS, cancer and leukemia nigga, I’m sicker!
What I jot’ll break ya like bottles, my throat throttles
Put a statue on skates, you can’t get a better role model
This sample’s an example of ample artistic carnage
I put your garbage raps in bondage, pay the lord some homage
I make mockeries of your glossaries in this odyssey
If God made D a steak, you fakes couldn’t put a fork in me
Take what you wrote and elope
Or sprinkle some cocaine on your asshole if you want your shit to be dope!


My chapters manufacture fractures, your knack to be an actor
Is a factor in the fact that my rapture captures your pack to smack ‘em down like tractors
Practice can’t make you perfect, you’re the exception
My perception is that your mother shows no affection for your conception
The reception of your invention makes your dome hurt
My flow splurts to give niggaz problems like math homework
The provision of my rendition escapes your vision
Causing collision with your mission, your condition needs physicians
Lyrically I’m superior by far
Rappers enrol in mini-golf lessons if you wanna be up to pa
My creative concepts cause kids to cling
To clues of how I come with novel ideas like Stephen King
I take no vacation from my verbal vocation
Your vegetated ventilation needs a vocal variatio
Your position in hip-hop should be ridded
You’re like my dick to a virgin nigga, you don’t fuckin’ fit in!


This bastard mastered blasting masses of asses of all classes
The fastest sprinter could not get passed this inventor of massive classics
Suckers get sliced by syllables and similes
Got flavour like a hill of beans as big as the Philippines
Niggaz get mic excited but need Pointers from Sisters
My scripts will indeed work to make Siskel & Ebert give this
Two thumbs up, who comes rough to pump ‘nuff true funk stuff
Your raps encourages the purchases of earmuffs
Bluffs is what you’re calling when balling you’re better
I dare you to come near, I’ll take care of you like a babysitter
Shit I shoulda shot ya straight to ya grill
Still, lyrics load my lips to buck ya like a dollar bill
The reaction to your subtraction is satisfaction
Your traction had no sanction, my counteraction left you in fractions
Here’s the reason MCs have fears of me
I’m like a toilet with no sense of humour, I take my shit seriously

Track Name: Mental Mirage
You suffer from a mental mirage when your click be dishin’ your props
And you assume that you’re large until the recognition stops
Now you be takin’ rap for granted like shit given in wills
Yet your friends won’t make you ends if you ain’t got skills
You got a mental mirage when your click be dishin’ your props
And you assume that you’re large until the recognition stops
Now you be takin’ rap for granted like shit given in wills
Who gives a fuck where you from if you ain’t got skills?

Your whole squad’s lost, distorted thoughts support the force that taught
You frauds that you was hard, yet my bars contort your court
What I sport is inventions with intentions of ascension
Prices you’ll pay like attention if you rap only to your henchmen
Who you impressin’ by addressin’ your men while performin’?
This tells me like informants that you’re boring and should be dormant
Warning: I’ll leave you mourning like midnight to noon time
My tunes shine to soon climb and ruin rhymes that you goons chime
Your cyph’s in isolation thinking you’re the hip-hop nation
Devastation is where you be headed, like decapitation
I hate it that when I see you like intensive care units
Influence bigs up your chest like a bitch with balloon tits
Your boys make noise for you at each and all your functions
Yet your junction expects a free copy of your production
It’s evident every element of your career’s irrelevant
About your raps nobody gives a fuck like someone celibate

You got a mental mirage when your click be dishin’ your props
And you assume that you’re large until the recognition stops
Now you be takin’ rap for granted like shit given in wills
Yet your friends won’t make you ends if you ain’t got skills
You got a mental mirage when your click be dishin’ your props
And you assume that you’re large until the recognition stops
Now you be takin’ rap for granted like shit given in wills
Who gives a fuck where you from if you ain’t got skills?

Skills of niggaz I run wit is abundant yet is redundant that label funded
Rappers are hunted to reign, while I remain unwanted
By the local promoter bringing niggaz north of my border
Who order respect like a mean father towards his daughter
Hold up, who fuckin’ told ya my nation would build your clout
When you’re wacker than skeefs who call my house with nothing to talk about?
When shows seem effortless, like trains I express sentences
With insulting references, striking niggaz like resemblances
Hence this is the way you make me feel like molestation
Cuz expectations of acceptation’s based on living locations
I’ve stood in many concert crowds feeling sick
Wishing to represent by coming off the top like my head was a dick
But shit, I’m forced to block progressing my distressing moods
While your crew slacks off like men changing pants in dressing rooms
Suppressing dudes your gesture when you siesta on the rest of
The world, I suggest ya get a move on like wrestler


Verbal burns are heard on suburban curbs when nerds try usurpin’ my workings
There’s no end to the list of bros I can diss like Bergen
It’s urgent for rappers who’ve adapted to lapsing to fasten
Their ass in the line of duty before opportunity pass ‘em
Cuz asking your crew for assistance while you show resistance
To consistency will leave you and success a great distance
Persistence in producing poetic parodies
Won’t get ya closer like couples are supposed to after therapy
Terribly niggaz merrily get all elated
Over scripts they’ve created while they’re slated as being constipated
Your whole clan has low plans, your slow jams have no fans
It’s obvious your wackiness shows like programs
This pro stands though faced with the industry’s curse
I plan it like Earth, my verses to burst like a virgin’s first squirts
And I refuse to lose out by being lazy
Think you’ll be hittin’? You’re kiddin’ yourself like pregnant ladies

Wack MC’s who cannot see reality
Come out my country, come out my country
Come out my country
Come out my country, come out


Track Name: Dear Hip Hop
Dear Hip Hop, I’ll love you ‘til I die
To taste the grace of your embrace, I will try
My mission is to utilize my skills on the mic
To rid you of the losers, abusers and stereotypes

Dear hip hop, what is the state of your condition?
Niggaz be dishin’ fiction making my decision a mission
To rid them from the planet cuz my tracks hacks their wackness
Raps they flap is dryer than habitats of a cactus
Fact is I’m raw skilled cuz God filled me with the spunk to be
So phat, rappers need an elevator to keep up with me
My objective’s to be selective with my projections
To carry ya beyond the barriers of new dimensions
So help me slit the slack bros with wack flows
I pack blows to crack foes sweepin’ your reach from plateaus
With senseless scripts, their lips is paraplegic
While the level of my lyrics leave their legion with lesions
From when you gave me birth, I’ve remained true to your rule
Yet phonies try to hold me back like teachers did to them in school
My promise to punish poetic plagues won’t end
Cuz ever since I was ten, you been my best fuckin’ friend


Now bredren, I comprehend your frustration affiliation
Your evaluation from those outside your nation lacks education
Corrupt critics voice views with no validity
Claiming you’re the blame for violence within vicinities
And promotion to penetrate privates’ how they depict us
So they deface our albums advising parents with stickers
Hopin’ that our shit will die out
They remind me of niggaz in French class, not knowing what the fuck they talkin’ ‘bout
Our expressions exemplify reality
Through artistic talents found in all municipalities
Cuz hip hop, you’re growing like dicks during porno flicks
Yet pricks be on my back like slaps when I used to get licks
Man, even pops gives me no props, not understandin’
Why me and you are branded to be lifelong companions
No power possible could prevent me to proceed
To profess rhymes ‘til death like a Muslim does a creed


Now bro, I know who hurts you most besides those who are ignorant
And not articulate is niggaz who figure shit lingers when
They travel down gravel roads of trend interpretation
These imitations cause no fascination but contemplation
Of how they came to commercial composure
Probably writing rhymes upside down on a crucifix the way they crossin’ over
Unworthy benefit reapers, sportin’ sneakers and beepers
While I be catchin’ bags under my sights from sleepless
Nights, writing for life cuz I refuse to feel the e-
ffects of being known by material memorabilia
No matter how they bring you down, I’ll stand your ground anyway
Cuz H-I-P H-O-P is in D-A-N’s D-N-A
My tracks axe niggaz like questions, I’ve mastered all
Styles to make rappers look wacker than me playing basketball
Sorry for those who represent what you resent
Like O.J. Simpson, I’m absolutely 100%
Hip hop!

Yours truly,