letra de neil breen (prod. j ximo) - holliday (tx)
[holliday]
ima keep pushing until im able to say that i made it
even then, probably became used to slaying
leave tracks slain, interesting, because they still remain
full of life, the reanimator, call me herbert west
maybe surname hoover, the way everything
has a flag, saying that holliday did it again
with the pen and pad, the kids a menace
leaving other peeps in the dust, floating keyboard switches
director of this fuse a lod, took notes from niel breen
madе myself a self insert with thе elegance of a god
no chance ima stop
manic, when i drop
ramming with rantings, dangerous with a pen
make yall languish and reminisce about when
you didn’t have to stress about a 16 year old kid
flaunting my c-ckiness with a little pizzazz
a dash of vigor and a drip of class, mix match em tactically
aggressive when writing like westside gun adlibs in the back track
i adapted hermes and a tiny mustache
only thing holding me back is lack of proper apparatuses
and dapper mixing, even that shackle loosely attached
profusely lavish, spirit of the track, grab it
astute when attacking, rather gruesome when i’m at it
coocoo without rapping, move me in a padded room asap
panoramic view of cannon spew i provide on tracks
slide on the beat, no friction, im bending the laws of physics
high school teacher livid, introduce a new curriculum
a master class of crafting passages
insert something here about how i’m schooling yall asses
he pull a little magic, only way to explain
how double l go so insane, lend him an eye and ear
the kid something similar to adolfo constanzo
pogo over instrumentals, how he not motion sick?
explosive talent, borderline safety hazard
has to be using hazmat as lines, perhaps gunpowder?
in reality though, though his soul might feel at home mid flow
is that this not just a goal
but rather the goal, you know, the main motivation
the thing that keeps the brain from engaging in self dismantling
so his banter not just fueled by the zest of his passion, but also
the breath of a b-st-rd who knows he can’t, won’t rest
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