Hér er rýma sem ég samdi í gært/just killing time/en hún makar sense… Now i dedicate this song/to all those who rep them self up wit paper and pen/liv on/ basically burstin out words/ who lay in deep thoughts/ which sentence deserved to be bust/observe/most of people look at us/ as immitures bastards/ spitting som bullshit that dont make any sense/for me its my only ology/my rapology/but hey this just a frustrations/and peoples nonesenses/they cant relate to our tong language/consuming is my thoughts about all this doubts/its so funny how it all start to change/from being a worthless nappy head jerk/none but sensetive things/wit a heart full of emotions/as an innocent bird/running in and out of troubles/till the alert push us up from the dirt/for a while or som/the lyricall destiny/that we got/and beats shows me where i belong/in the studio creating fly shit/ my recipie/it is obviosly a culture shock for the hole community/but they can stop/ cuz now we suddenly part of the sociaty
Viðlag2x

Real rappers think quick before the spit there rhymes out/fake emcees think slow what they talkin about before the regrats goes all out/ they just slip and fall/cant resisted to watch real moutherfuckas do real things/ this is one day at war…

none of them could digest/the white ghetto boys/can proceed success/and the only soul who belives what we can/ and what we are able to spew/its god demands/who controlls all our moves/som of us relate to the big shape/som of us claim for years and years/ days after days/but nevar get the honor being legally known inside the hip-hop cave/thats why fake emcees neva gone to nip a deal/ cuz they think so fast/lame skills/and get fold up/cuz its much more heavier then they thought or bought /

Viðlag2x
can ya imagine if guns was legell/there wouldnt be no such thing we call equel/ this industry would be drowning in flowers and tears / one day of war/real rappers pose up in stright lines/each and one of us wit cooked gun against our temple / Pull the trigger /all at the same time/ we all die at the same time/so simple/ one smoke feild skys/skys are gray/ lot of mothers crying/ and the only faces that seems satisfy/its the wack accepeted emcees/ who watch us die/ no more elegant rhymes/no more adrenline beats/only hundreds brake bread priceless mic/who will multiply/minute after minute/they will torture this biz/ and leave no improve/only couple of graves/tombstone/our name will only live through the music biz/and red rose who turn in red seed/so ya see/neva pass the mic to an fake emcee/knamean/

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