I'm gonna have to kick his ass.
Why you guys?
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
Yeah.
Been in the public eye for a couple of months now.
A group of six-bitters coming with one sound.
It gets bombed to your mom's house.
A studio flat sitting with skunk out.
But you never knew that we'd grow fat chewing
in strong pounds.
It's nuts how now you can travel the world in a sentence
and get hated on and despised on people
before you admit them.
But I'll keep going and pursuing for a while.
Yeah, with wild tech, shock people
like stomping on a child's head.
Money shouldn't be the motivation to make music.
No fakes use it.
We make them stop moving.
I break fluid.
I fell in love with the sound of hip-hop.
Hearing the greats do it.
Not a bunch of pricks that aim for fame through it.
Strict ***, dribbling, insignificant script.
Mimicking lyricists get kicks of their kids
missing limbs when I spit glistening lyrics
to split the wigs of a critic.
And any person unsure, this is big listening.
Say what you want to say.
Do what you want to do.
Because at the end of the day, we're here
and we're coming through.
Hate if you want to hate.
Screw if you want to screw.
But at the end of the day, we're bringing you solid news.
Spray what you want to spray.
Choose what you want to choose.
Because at the end of the day, we're here
and we're coming through.
Slate if you want to slate.
Boo if you want to boo.
But at the end of the day, we're bringing you truth.
Still sometimes shocked at the way that it's moving.
We're making tunes and doing videos
that people are rating when viewing.
Marking shows, clothes, burning EPs on CDs.
Hip-hop's the game of us, so it ain't no way that we're losing.
Coming with track that sounds mentally unstable.
So eventually, we'll make you go nuts
like we're bread to the ape, whoa.
Taking shots at Oxfest to steady your aim, dude.
Because I'm ready to bake you like an edible cake.
I'll chew before spitting out a rapper with fake tunes.
If they claim truth to their fake views,
make no mistake, who's going to drain brooms of their brain
juice when I spray brooms?
Hope it ain't you.
A boss with a mic in my hand, like masturbating on stages.
A craftsman with a brain sick like a man with a plague is.
So best to cancel your playlist.
Find a CD and play this.
Split profits on the move.
Now, no way you can change it.
Say what you want to say.
Do what you want to do.
Because at the end of the day, we're here and we're coming through.
Hate if you want to hate.
Screw if you want to screw.
But at the end of the day, we're bringing you sorted news.
Spray what you want to spray.
Choose what you want to choose.
Because at the end of the day, we're here and we're coming through.
Slate if you want to slate.
Boo if you want to boo.
But at the end of the day, we're bringing you truth.
I take a pull of my spliff and excel on my enemies.
The force of a girl in my sentences.
Eventually, you're blown away when we click, load, and sprint.
You didn't know to stay in your zone because you're slow mentally.
We keep it live like a pylon.
Moisturize, dry songs.
That's right, the vibe's strong.
Epic when we write songs.
Package them up with some rapping as ***.
Fakes try to imitate, but what they're lacking is us.
So we're back on this rapping thing.
We find the formula in the lab for six weeks on beats and tore it up.
So the talking's done.
Banging at your speakers, slanging loud in the red zone.
You're dead clones, heads blown from the beat ***.
And you best know your CD didn't get repeated,
but your number got deleted.
I knew you were weak from the get-go.
My brother said so.
Who the *** jams in a nightclub with ***ing headphones?
Peace.