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TBH saga, mad mad drama, disembarking once again, the northern top planner. Pancrase champion class funcrusher, the back paceker bringing back all the freshest material. Rappers turning into harmless pop stars, still the big fish in a pond of zines. We see it through, we don't need your seat, stinking rotten underground brand. Overcoming the slump with zero stunts, the new century replicant loading works with passion. The remains from 'Thumpin' have no chance for reissue, juniors aside, no one gets your instant jungles. Our mission operates beneath the surface, a revolutionist using mics like a Beretta. Battle quallity, propped against the countless obsessed hit-makers, second to none. Spirit photograph the succession of epemeral speaks, like sketching the contour of airflows. A chain letter from my pen-"Endeavour", the so-called "scene" should be able to tap into this one. The press interviews fill up the schedule, leave definite impressions with top notch metaphors Suck in all self-conceit, running through, the drum'n'voice TRANS SP EXPRESS.
Let the fair wind blow, let the audience wait, a dirt way wrapped in dust. The Rap game is no joke, let nobody surpass us, even the folded arms' indifferent ears could not shun this. Let the fair wind blow, let the audience wait, a hard way wrapped in thick smock. Let the disc spin indefinitely, border control can't even stop these radio waves.
Rivals and clients, buyers, dealers, disseminators, gamblers, upstarts and the fortunete, diamonds, Street teams and women on the street, think of us as your old friends and listen. Once you start, there's no stopping until you lose, a tournament, the fuse is sparked. Steer clear from yes-men and apathy, let the stone roll towards the break of dawn. Sneering at the mimics-on-parade, winnings all awards that start with "the illest". The light is green, straight on through industry intersections, no one has enough guts to stop us. Let me remind you, hip hop doesn't appear through a TV tube, it's a culture of survival. There exists another top-liner, another Khun Sa reaching ove to Hunza and Yungnan. Brimming, words circulating, in a type of endorphin rumba pulse. The mother of creation is always the hunger, who do you think we are, we are the Blue. Orient based nouvelle vague, crank up and accelerate, the JP EXPRESS. About to run through your mind hell, kids and ladies getting choked by slang.
Let the fair wind blow, let the audience wait, a dirt way wrapped in dust. The Rap game is no joke, let nobody surpass us, even the folded arms' indifferent ears could not shun this. Let the fair wind blow, let the audience wait, a hard way wrapped in thick smock. Let the disc spin indefinitely, border control can't even stop these radio waves.
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