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Those hands up, those hands up, those hands up, up, up...
Ok, if I remember correctly, I'm the man behind the beats and the money,
give me a dead microphone and it's already resurrected
ONE, TWO, THREE, CHECK!
before every show my team tries three.
raise the volume, the dirt doesn't hear me
I warm up these people, do you find it funny?
(when the shit is perfect) I close, the rest I give to my tough audience
I know you liked it,
it's not a new verse,
it was a test, I come up with something
ONE, TWO, THREE, RHYMES
I drop non-stop for the bros who have style
those who know me know, I drop fat themes
students in classes repeat with Bassi
(this flow can't be stopped!)
the rookies fill notebooks
determination, consistency, imagination and precision
otherwise you end up being an asshole among a million (word!)
ONE, TWO, THREE, AND THE MONEY?
I still have too few, I want many!
I'm out with the cash frenzy since ninety-six,
maybe now I would sell my face.
(I want the money) ok?
be careful, pay me for all your fun
if I had them, I would tell you how I spend them
but these people live off their parents and I don't fit in
ONE, TWO, THREE SUCKERS!
they give you great blowjobs and then talk behind your back! get rid of this bullshit:
were you talking about me?
do my mp3 format raps make you sick?
but (if I meet you I'll make you pass)
the desire to joke, I like to mess around.
come to my studio, do you want this sound?
pay me in advance, it's much more underground!
ONE, TWO, THREE, SB!
no, you won't be cool like this!
we have baggy pants, rhymes to tire you out, always ahead shows: we are bastards!
(Dirty Zanardi) drop this shit,
war machines on the road, always the same stuff
microphone check and people say nice,
we spit on a beat or acapella (wack pù!)
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOOD!
when we're out we put on a few pounds
go headfirst into meat and wine,
Rido passes a cigar, nah! without a mouthpiece.
(now we want a beer)
even better a grappa, then you'll see how I rhyme.
there are those who live inside a map,
me and my rhyme are down in the kitchen or in the cellar and it works like:
ONE, TWO, THREE, PUSSY!
the more the better (or not guys!)
I'm too good, down in the undergrowth, where every shady deal finds a place.
(I lick and don't leave a drop)
like the first time with a bong
super bus diggy, if there's a good reason I drop an honest record, that's enough for me.
ONE, TWO, THREE, STOP!
I pass it and close it, witness of my hip-hop.

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