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letra de swift illusion - pro the leader & nova kane

[holocaust]
this rhyme is not biodegradable
a skeleton is found in a cave though
veterinarian police have to come get an old beaten scrawny horse from your stable
i feed scr-ps to the mcs under the table
maybe you find you’re able falling into the lake though
i eat ghost stories like pac-man, some flap scan
where something haunting attacks and
i move men mentally around bases like a f-cking grand slam
there was an article about me in the boston herald, i fill mcs with peril
i sent a five year old android bomb to explode like daryl
i’m lost in a world full of mega firearm ‘tron’
around my babylon, some taxi driver gun arm
i galloped far, you fall and die from a roof after slipping off
i nail you down in the garden in the form of a cross
you find your silly ass on an island ‘lost’
at night you get done in by a whiskey drinking woman
one less b-st-rd out of the lands of plumage
your whole crew gets thrown in a lake at night late
your body gets shipped in a crate to a dark place, wait

[the professional]
yeah, grab a hoody against my sacred cloak
motherf-ck anybody that got hatred for the pro
straight rhyming, no hook, it’s all sk!ll
embarrassed, scorched yourself to the next exit
while me and my crew be off to the next session
y’all some narcoleptics always caught sleeping
the leader, yo i’m rarely caught resting
west coast kings, underground raw rap
___ to the grim, black age of bald cap
battle rap is my habitat, habit the rap
rabbit out of the hat, you can’t handle that, rat-a-tat
you ain’t all that, son you better fall back
when i hit the stage, son the crowd all claps
what the f-ck is that? how should i react, i’m gone
[nova kane]
i’m ____ temper tantrum, the world feels the storm
ageless like hate and infecting like a saw
wisdom of the ancient with murderous thoughts
i called in work, told them i was dead like i’m gone
i whistled down the wind, there ain’t enough room
listen to tom waits’ crooked valentine’s blue
a rubik’s cubes embrasures, the jittery hand
take it back to ’85, i used to clap hands
your small change, son i make money
when it rains outside, my dirty dogs get muddy
i whistle it past the graveyard on the wrong side of the road
the candle’s been drinking, it wasn’t me yo
my style’s an anomaly that no one can see
an intricate machine that easily please
i sing new songs, remastered you see
stolen travel lodge, someone else is seen
regurgitated thoughts, nothing new that i can say
i’ll rearrange what i know to find a new way
a christmas card from a hooker is a site to see
a mary ____ band plays, i’m singing off-key
a mad man starts, ain’t got nothing on me
and you just happen to be a leaf on a tree
that gets blown away by the witch or degrees

[semantix tha sorcera]
it all start when i spark darts in the brainstem
clamp ____, audience on my ____
clan voyeur men, we seen all your disgraces
and traces of tears that have roamed down your faces
meditating status of greatness
obtained this from patience and mind relaxations
techniques from the ancient civilisations
this is how sorcera summons his creations
this beat’s like a carp ’cause i spit out the winged ones
phones full of splattahouse videos and ringtones
tai chi blows to your toes and your headpiece
you bleed from the inside out onto your bed sheets
not to be nasty but your wack don’t match me
remedial class left back like colossi
if you can keep up you’re my people
if not slurry real crime will be back for the sequel

- pro the leader nova kane

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