Sin Coro

We're in trouble
I'm gonna diss everyone
I'm buzzing like a cold bucket of water
with live electricity wires
throwing a couple of radioactive rhymes
adorned with nonsense
so they vomit a mix of taro and ground meat
This rhyme is aimed
at those with sky-high self-esteem
who think they're tough because they smoke fern
here come my knuckles to the chest
to leave them spitting ketchup
from their broken mouth, for risking their crazy life
against my buddy, The Visitor
and this singer, The Resident
making a scene
both mixed up, hitting harder than an elephant
There's no fake implants here
There's no crap like in Pampel
There's no stench like in Hampel
There's no thug life like gangster
There's no sampling like sample
Here what there is, is this, here what there is, is this...
I really don't know what's here,
but I know what I drop on the Mic,
comes out hot like moonshine strike
I'm not reggaeton, reggaetonera,
I'm not hip-hop,
but I'll leave you jumping like Grand Hopa
remember how Chopa in Jonboca
like a weed kangaroo
This is the clear in a Raiyu in the nude
Very sure of this note
of this note, of this note,
that lifts you to the ceiling,
that raises the mileage, the octane,
so you jump to the sky and take a trip,
quickly, in a minute, like a street snack.
I'm going to be the biggest mouth,
and shout loud so it's heard all the way to Hong Kong,
because The Visitor put me on the track
like King Kong,
like James Bond,
like Dot com,
like, this, like, this,
Forget it, but he went overboard
Left everyone sweating,
With salty armpits,
If you haven't danced, you've wasted time

Chorus

This song doesn't need a chorus,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noroooo.
This song doesn't need a chorus,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noroooo.

And where are the tough guys,
Who don't need bodyguards,
who have like forty thousand souls,
dirtier than a prison guard,
Van Dammes mixed with Steven Seagal,
more armed than an arsenal,
with a crew of like twenty thousand soldiers all agitated,
but with lyrics of a third-grade hanging kid
that's how it is, that's what's up,
reggaeton reggaeton,
reggaeton reggaetime,
they're all mixed up, hanging,
badly synchronized, unbalanced
And where are the rappers don't stopa
the pip-poppers, the hip-hoppers,
the most anti-commercial when they rap on the Mic,
to then go to the mall
and buy some Nikes,
Ay!, Oh shit!, Oh shit!, listen to this:
One for the money, two for the show,
and the party ended up like Moe's tavern,
empty, empty, with kiko king chirping, chirping,
no one understood you for being slick,
with your lyrics you think you're very refined,
and you spoke Chinese to the audience,
like the Pink Panther,
you said nothing.
"We hip-hoppers are philanthropists
of culturally doctorized poetry only
authorized to be understood by educated people"
Educated in what?, in what?,
if you also eat steak,
and have corn flakes and pancakes for breakfast,
I sing for the people, for everyone,
so they understand me at home,
popular pop for all races,
for the mix, for reggaeton, for salsa,
this is made with bread and dough,
rinsed with grease, straight to your belly.

Chorus

This song doesn't need a chorus,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noroooo.
This song doesn't need a chorus,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noro,
Noro, noro, noroooo.