Días

Yeah, yeah
Bad singers sons of bitches
As always
From the rioba, dude

I keep giving
All the fucking bullshit that you're criticizing me
Ask about the rioba who the hell keeps sounding
I travel with the crew not just hip-hop smuggling
Raised in the south ready to take command
High-ranking lyrics, my black guys chilling
I wander without hurry, they talk tough, spit soft
I define good changes, C.R.O. leveling
I kick it with my black guys and those bitches are watching

That's your art, how much shit is worth?
I spit transparency in universal styles
Silent my gestures, my verses fundamental
Ask about BARDERO$, they respond like animals
Come on, come and show them that you stand out
On top of those legs sensational ideas
The essence of my group lost among so many bars
If they mess with my boys, they better be prepared

Shadows without equals, come shoot if they open fire
To the rap of my country, it lacks a lot of balls
More style than ego, with whores I don't deny
I boast of this shit because I know this game

And I burn it and burn it, don't talk to me about shit
I only came for money
I can't anymore, I don't want to
Wherever I go, a street dog

My dogs spitting there on the corner
While love was breaking my piggy bank
I pray for the health my family deserves
I pray for mine when they carry merchandise
Fuck the police, the damn realest click
Challenging levels changing categories
Passengers, just like all my days
In the end, we all end up in the same shit

Face to face and with my people
Don't mess with these dogs when they're hot
I go with the pack ready to mark your mind
We're fed up with the shit they sell us

There's no law man, of course I accept the dispute
I don't know who Tupac is, I roll with Lucas
Spitting for those sons of bitches
On stage, warrior more black than WuTang

Check it out bitch, we're back like before
Infragrant sounds, shining like diamonds
The theories of my people always ahead

Relative crap comes out from the underground
Sounding big, for everyone
With no other alternative my vagabond poetry
My Argentina remains alive, of resin and counterpoints
Its shot turns off everyone in a matter of seconds

For the rioba
From the rioba
Bad singers
Two thousand and something