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letra de elysium - roqy tyraid

[proximo]
so, after five years of scratching a living in flea infested villages, we’re finally going back to where we belong. the colosseum. -inhales- oh, you should see the colosseum, spaniard. fifty-thousand romans; watching. every movement of your sword. willing you to make that k!ller blow. the silence before you strike. and the noise afterwards. it rises, it rise up like – a storm. as if you were the thunder god, himself

[maximus] you were a gladiator?
[proximo] yes, i was..
[tyraid]
slago, what up?

give me dope beats, dope mothaf-ckin’ rhymes! (x2)
gotta n-gga feelin like lb in they prime and ya, “ya can’t stop me. no, ya can’t stop me!”
give me dope beats, dope mothaf-ckin’ rhymes! (x2)
gotta n-gga feelin’ like j league in they prime, n-gga!
give me dope beats, dope mothaf-ckin’ rhymes!

yo, disrespecters get dissected and severed apart/
separate sections buried in several spots/
i’m thirty minutes into seven o’clock/
terminal with the text, i’m surgical with the sentence, where the h-ll is my medical garb?! /
earning frequent flyer rapid rewards/
playin’ connect the dot with the map, rappin on tours/
the arizona -ss-ssin brandishin’ swords/
your patterns bore me, more annoying than that black chick who sang for sanderson ford/
your lines bogus, lyin’ bout ridin’ porsches/
self-ent-tled nonsense, get off your high horses/
or i’ll dismount you coons/
i’ll crash through windows, grab you, make us do a somersault, and throw you out the room/
you stupid b-st-rds and beyond raw/
i run up on unsuspecting rappers, har-ssin’ them like the nardwuar/
roq’s the incredible hulk in your concert speakers/
fieldgoalin’ volkswagen beetles, flingin’ parking meters/
eatin’ weak emcees with chianti and farver beans/
i hate you n-ggas like my mama’s paula deen/
i scoff at your exhausted dreams/
presenting intellectual art for this garbage scene, for listening to these bars, i should charge a fee/
i’ll make a k!lling in the game, like aaron hernandez/
i wrote this lyric in my brain while preparing a sandwich/
every parable’s savage, veritable cl-ssic/
you squares better stay in your lane for a fairer advantage/
instead of kissing b-tts over customer service/
this suburban brotha hustles like corrupt ushers in southern churches/
‘til my buzz is perfect. derek fish in the clutch/
too many lames around the table, that’s dinner with schmucks/
i laugh at these clowns, p-ss your bag and piece out/
or i’ll dispatch of thee, j-panese samurai style, you ain’t “active” you’re action league now/
the rebirth of thee herb/
m.o.b. t-shirts, skinny jean squeezers, pretending to be nerds/
you better do your research, or you’ll be desert/
you critics eat dirt, like roger ebert, you obsolete jerk/
throw pedals on my feet, like i’m parading through ancient rome/
greet me with a mini-me khaleesi from the game of thrones/
it’s safe to say, i made my bones/
me and my age bracket brought dope -ss rappin’ back from the endangered zone/
what you n-ggas listenin’ to is the changin of guards/
eighties babies, nineties kids, the head of the table is ours/
give me dope beats, dope mothaf-ckin’ rhymes! (x2)
gotta n-gga feelin like lb in they prime and ya, “ya can’t stop me. no, ya can’t stop me!”
give me dope beats, dope mothaf-ckin’ rhymes! (x2)
gotta n-gga feelin’ like j league in they prime, n-gga!
give me dope beats, dope mothaf-ckin’ rhymes!

[proximo]
i wasn’t the best because i k!lled quickly. i was the best because the crowd loved me. win the crowd and you’ll win your freedom
[maximus]
i will give them something they have never seen before

[tyraid]
for this whole duration, you’re my slaves. no escapin’ the fathoms of my imagination/
i’m to cyphers what manhattan is to patrick bateman/
when it comes to rhymin’, i am vengeful/
disembowel rappers, throw they sacrificial -sses down the stairs of mayan temples/
my british fans like “man, you’re mental. you’re whole project is monumental/
you’re the type of artist that has potential” /
my socket’s loose, i’m doctor doom, shockin’ you pompous coons/
drop the mic and grip a mop and broom, you’ve not improved/
your concert’s full of constant “boo!” s/
everybody wants to leave, like when chris bosh’s in a locker room/
ominous plots for depositin’ guap/
generic tats, saggin’ women’s pants, you look like androgynous pac/
who you slain raw, hustlin’ trees/
you grew up playing pogs, watchin’ my brother and me/
you see, i don’t believe in leisure, i’ve got a comfortable lead/
it’s r-o-q-y, t-y-r-a-i-d! one more time/

[proximo]
so, spaniard, we shall go to rome together and have bl–dy adventures! and the great wh0r- will suckle us until we are fat and hungry, and can suckle no more. and then, when enough men have died – perhaps you will have your freedom

- roqy tyraid

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