La morte dei poeti - Dj Fastcut, Warez, Wiser

Oh dici sempre che vieni a Milano e poi non vieni mai

Io ti aspetto eccheccazzo

Diggity baby!

Per Fastcut la morte dei poeti

Guastaf3st3

Un abbraccio forte boys

Ay, diggity!

Lambrate nel posto

Oh, yeah, yeah

I do what I gotta do

Non sanno che fare in bocca mani

Han perso la mano e non spingono più

Vedi a furia di fare la manicure

Man a pay do and you may lose

Gin & Juice homie quale grey goose

Hai anche fatto money ma non sei cool

Bello il personaggio ma non sei tu

Dare avere, ma non rinfacciare

Se hai le palle tu non ritrattare

Sulle spalle pesi da portare

Dare avere money da contare

Tutti che han voglia di scappare

Parti, torni ed è tutto uguale

Più che il posto in cui non vuoi stare

Il problema sei tu e non lo vuoi accettare

FastCut, give me the mic

Scivolo sul beat con le pattine

Non ci servi se non hai cartine

Cosa prendi il mic salta le puntine

Ai morti i poeti sono nati i dealer

Son diversi ma fan la stessa fine

Tu che sei una pussy non puoi far le rime

Scivoli come quando c’ha le ballerine

C'è un filo che lega le poesie coi miei testi

Gli autori sono entrambi innamorati di una bad bitch

Metti a paragone le poesie coi miei testi

Vedi che in comune abbiamo la solita bad bitch

All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real DJs, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real out-laws, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

Noi siamo già poeti defunti, questo è scontato

Per questo penso che non si deva sprecare il tempo

Un giorno lascerò un ricordo a chi m’avrà ascoltato

Grazie al sangue che verso nelle rime che sto scrivendo

Ed è, come una grande partita a Monopoly

Dove non domini, ma non ci sta differenza morale

Tra ricchi e poveri, in quanto entrambi uomini

La c’era un sit comedy che

La si guarda comodi e

Guarda che vomiti se

Vedi le celebrity man

Questi si dicono re

Saltando tutti gli step

Ma non me sembra del rap, si presenta come cabaret

E vuoi vedere quanto cazzo spingo?

Il tuo ritratto è alquanto finto

Penso a come rapperà un giorno mio figlio

Se come il papà non avrà un appiglio

Ed è tardi, corro come bianconiglio petardi

No che non m’assottiglio, diamanti

Se guardi il cielo splendo tra gli astri

Con i miei bro saremo giganti

E me lo prometto fa la gavetta del bravo cadetto

Non ho capito perdona che hai detto?

Meglio se infili di fretta l’elmetto

All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real DJs, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real out-laws, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

Levati dalle palle viso pallido

Dal tuo sorrido squallido

Intanto rappo come d’incanto, sbando

Al terzo litro di vino bianco

Con quel sorriso che sa di magico

Da fine al regime tragico

Rotolo come una molotov a terra

Un piede nella fossa, l’altro nel campo di guerra

Cosa vuoi da me?

dimmi quello che pensi

C'è chi fa da se, non c'è chi ci fa da re

Schiaccio e fai Ka-boom

Se pensi di comprare diversi

Tipo un mc

prototipi gangsta

Conosco scompensi mentali

Reazioni a catena

Divulgazioni di opzioni in cancrena

Ho l’alma nera

Brò calispera

Mo s'è fatta sera, ho una brutta cera

Me la vedo nera

Mangiati la foglia che mangio la mela

Amo come adamo ed eva

Amo bleffare, compare, vederti twerkare

Per tutta quanta la sera

Guastafeste

Repellente per le vostre creste

Un martello per le vostre teste

Ingerisco persone in-digeste

Percepisco persone di-soneste

Non mi diverto in mezzo a tanta gente

Perchè l’ansia prende e tende

Colpi bassi, torna sui suoi passi

E tornerà sempre

All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real DJs, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real out-laws, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

Oh you always say that you come to Milan and then you never come

I'm waiting for you eccheccazzo

Diggity baby!

For Fastcut the death of poets

Faultf3st3

A big hug boys

Ay, diggity!

Lambrate in the place

Oh, yeah, yeah

I do what I gotta do

They don't know what to do in their mouths

They have lost their hand and no longer push

See by dint of doing the manicure

Man a pay do and you may lose

Gin & Juice homie which gray goose

You also made money but you are not cool

Nice character but it's not you

Give to have, but don't blame

If you have the balls, don't retract

Weights to carry on the shoulders

Give have money to count

All who want to escape

You leave, come back and everything is the same

More than the place you don't want to be

The problem is you and you don't want to accept it

FastCut, give me the mic

I slide on the beat with the flaps

We don't need you if you don't have maps

What you get the mic skips the pins

Dealers are born to the dead poets

They are different but they have the same end

You who are a pussy can't make rhymes

You slide like when there are dancers

There is a thread that binds poems to my texts

The writers are both in love with a bad bitch

Compare poems with my lyrics

You see we have the usual bad bitch in common

All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real DJs, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real out-laws, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

We are already deceased poets, this is taken for granted

This is why I think that time should not be wasted

One day I will leave a memory to those who have listened to me

Thanks to the blood I pour in the rhymes I'm writing

And it is, like a big game of Monopoly

Where you do not dominate, but there is no moral difference

Between rich and poor, as both men

There was a sit comedy that

It looks comfy and

Watch what you throw up if

See the celebrity men

These call themselves kings

Skipping all the steps

But it doesn't look like rap to me, it looks like cabaret

And you wanna see how the fuck I push?

Your portrait is somewhat fake

I think about how my son will rap one day

If like dad he won't have a foothold

And it's late, I run like firecrackers white rabbit

No I don't thin, diamonds

If you look at the sky I shine among the stars

With my bro we will be giants

And I promise me the ranks of a good cadet

I did not understand forgive what you said?

Better if you put on your helmet in a hurry

All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real DJs, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real out-laws, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

Piss off your pale face

From your squalid smile

Meanwhile, I rap as if by magic, disbanded

At the third liter of white wine

With that smile that tastes magical

From an end to the tragic regime

I roll like a Molotov cocktail on the ground

One foot in the pit, the other in the war field

What do you want from me?

tell me what you think

There are those who act by themselves, there are those who act as kings

Squeeze and do Ka-boom

If you plan to buy several

Like a mc

gangsta prototypes

I know mental disorders

Chain reactions

Disclosures of gangrenous options

I have a black alma

Brò calispera

It is now evening, I have a bad look

I see it black

Eat the leaf I eat the apple

I love like adam and eve

I love to bluff, buddy, to see you twerk

All through the evening

Mood breaker

Repellent for your ridges

A hammer for your heads

I ingest undigested people

I perceive di-soneste people

I don't enjoy myself among so many people

Because anxiety takes and tends

Low blows, retrace his steps

And it will always come back

All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real DJs, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real out-laws, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up

Throw your hands up, throw your hands up