Traduzione: Lost In Poesia. Perdita.
Traduzione: Lost In Poesia. Blacklight Terra.
Traduzione: Lost In Poesia. Uccelli grande regola Skies Maggiore.
esta si-si-si-si hip hop musica si-si-si-si para escuchar hip hop para sentir el baile de las neuronas si si si hip hip-hop you you aja vamos you escuchame
and rubber clips with hollow joints Sharp lead that fled through your pressure points Celebrity Death Match, we out like an axe Bein' swung by a serial killer maniac Poetry
I join you? Adam: Not at all, good buddy. Let's do it Andrew: Alright. Adam: I can cook you dinner, And be by your side, Bathe in the moonlight, Get lost
what's it gonna be, gonna be Nigga, back up of me Steadily, steadily Locked you like a felony Readily, readily Bust shots, that's heavily Poetry, poetry
woman, yo, my name's not Susan It's the Akenyel, I rock well and with more clientel Then a guy with long caps of crack to sell I take poetry and start
saw William, he was as good as gone He'd packed up all his poetry and his hurtin' songs Well they say that he died, but the papers lied About our long lost
would make you laugh I feel as though my tongue were made of clay Anyway, I love you That's all I have to tell you I'm not a man of poetry Music
our finger on it Quantify the undoing of each little step And its just a lack of press And the refrigerator down at the boys club With its little magnets of poetry
the fucking time spent in the rain, patiently waiting for the devil and when the devil finally came he dried his eyes, apologised, and said ?I?m lost
holds Blessed with cold nocturnal bliss I let the colors of midnight unfold Harsh pestiferous winds sing glorious rhymes Like a death-written poetry
s getting (awfully) late. and your dinner's getting cold. i like simple songs with pretty words. i tried poetry, but it's just no good. the pages get lost
it's getting (awfully) late and your dinner's getting cold i like simple songs with pretty words i tried poetry, but it's just no good the pages get lost
memory, my record companies selling me My fans be telling me I'm the greatest You hate this, rigid, metaphysical, criminal mided poet Don't blow it, if it's lost
-dick It feels good to grab the mic and just allow yourself to chat The master of the microphone is here and he's black Recitin poetry, beautifully articulated
a clarinet Never to fumble or stumble, stayin away from arrogance The mic's a sacrament, I bring to life while you surrogate Lyrics are holy, I write this poetry