Tekst:
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
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
