[Intro]
Our cities have been failing for a long time too
The revolution cut with a millstone
Headed to God for all and everyone has their own mouth
Everyone in their own corner, lonely tomorrow
Instead of good looks, everyone prefers to have a gold mine
They sell their souls through every orifice
It seems clear, if you think to the contrary, I assure you you are in the minority
Too smooth for the left-wing bourgeois press
Who love the bad boy so much he doesn't extort his kids
Celebrate cursed singers and their post-mortem compilations
At the foot of the hip-hop hotel, I lay their heads...< br/>[Chorus]
I play my life like a stand-up
Technique honed on the stage of a dingy room
I feel like a jazz musician
1930s Harlem, solo score, Sooo Bad...
[Verse 1]
Sir the agent, scream not au crime, is do of rap
If the bathtub is filled with black ink, call me Marat
Our goals, all painted in gray, we know it well
That's why our verses are seven times the size of the choruses
If we say that we are going to cut up, it is not your curtains, your padlocks
But all these words which will stop our karmas
Ball-Trap like at the fair, lousy waste of the orchestra
We're giving them a renaissance to boost the bottom of their coffers
It's the sound of the future, it doesn't matter if your refrain was a hit
Story -pure, hard telling, gauze, compresses and sutures
I speak for mine, ignore the stupid donkeys
With this bitter impression of being this mayor of a capital failed
The heart forged in love, pierced with strength
Samurai in elegant green, dressed in death
The voice of the mic' lifted me out of the mess
My wake of haters lying lifeless #Musashi
And in the evenings, when the storm tears the landscape apart
You can read the distrust and fear on faces
If we no longer know how to dream we behave like a master's brat
We act rebellious, but with shitty kids
If this takes us where some deny us
Parading hand in hand with the worst of enemies
In these troubled times, where the tense atmosphere is expected
I always prefer the outstretched hand, to the outstretched arm
[Chorus]
I play my life like stand-up
Refined technique on the stage from a dingy room
I feel like a jazz musician
1930s Harlem, solo score, Sooo Bad...

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS