Faccio La Mia Cosa

In the house, the vibe is tense, confused, the scene is split, fashion's blown up, the crowd's getting into Hip-Hop, and the graves are already full of "posse"... They accuse those who sell out, while others do their best to make the message more accessible to the general public, to those starving for constructive ideas, whose absence creates negative effects on the consciousness of the masses, lacking any knowledge, even the most basic, of this global phenomenon called Hip-Hop, a way of life, an alternative cultural approach to everyday reality: I look around, I gather info, and I go back to tell it in the verbal form that suits me best, that of rational instinct pushing me to comment, to highlight what I see that I don't believe. Using rap, I interfere and give it my all, I don't sit back, I push the limits where I see a free space to act, to inform, and start to nibble at what the media, the television, puts at our disposal: I communicate the idea and the rhyme marries the rhythm... I'm a homeboy and I do my thing...
My rhyme winds smoothly over the beat like prose, it sticks to your mind almost like a suction cup, an indelible tattoo of the soul resistant to scrutiny that I penetrate and contaminate... I seed the system like a virus, today endemic, tomorrow epidemic, that's what I hope will happen: nothing holds me back, the counterattack has begun, it's launched. With a jolt like lightning, I break through every limit that hinders my growth and jeopardizes the success of this rhyming operation: I use metrics like a sharp, quick sword, honed like a blade, tight-knit like my crew that follows me wherever I go: my DJ's style spins the vinyl at a thousand miles an hour around the spindle, unleashing hell on earth, declaring war, launching the attack and burying you in a sea of shit... I'm not a buddy but a b-boy in effect in the house... and I do my thing...
A virtual voice at high volume rises from the cultural flatline, institutionalized by the power of a colluding State that has fooled us for years and caused damage upon damage, but we always pay the price, and the shards remain theirs... Like oxen, we drag the plow, beaten by a yokel, but the only furrow I intend to carve is the one on vinyl, my rhythm is feverish, quick like a whip with which I lash to blood those who don't follow my style, spewing bile and having nothing to say, drawing a line between rap and the world. I don't hide in the system's double bottom, I study and confront the problem, I sketch a plan, I prove the theorem in the form of a poem, according to the absolute and perfect concept that in the world you must be the "cause," not the "effect," and I don't give a damn about those who use Hip-Hop just as a pose... and I do my thing...