Like a man with short arms
I ain’t never gonna give up
I'll chop down err'thing
This race has got no finish line
You living in a tank, its war in ya British mind
I'll go hard on you like Nelson on prison bars
I'll tax your popularity until you call me Sars
Then do it again to your kids, omnibus
Rolling eyes
It’s 8 pm, my tv is dead, you know I’m here for generations
A living legend in this rap nation
I got Zodwa's love for this game ain’t no faking
I got my lines mummified
As dope as to leave a deaf brother mesmerised
Petrified
I own hip-hop a disease
Trans-missive
Now I pervade to raise inner beings
Simple, I’m a faker hater
I’m a car with a break failure
Stopping me is a suicidal mission
Pessimistic, you got a dying reason
Teken in op LitNet se gratis weeklikse nuusbrief. | Sign up for LitNet's free weekly newsletter.