Hombre Muerto Andando

LOWLIGHT

My producer tells me to stop talking about whores
And my whore always says to smoke less weed
Another whore I know is chasing me for the cash
And another one loves me, but I’ve already got my path

I’m a watchmaker, making money as time goes by
And I never wake up early, I do it even while I sleep
I’m a golden eagle flying against the wind
You’re just a reactor, commenting on what I’m doing

Don’t talk to me about bullshit, I’m no Anakin
In Pulp Fiction, I’m the briefcase
I’m alone even with twenty people here
A steppenwolf among dumb whores, manatees

Do you understand what I’m saying or what the hell?
It sounds weird like techno at the Bash
A good night can mean 40K in cash
I say I don’t want it, but I always want more

To buy myself a ranch far away, a barbed wire fence, a wooden porch, a wicker chair
If the house is on a ranch, then it shouldn’t even have a doorbell
And if they suck it together, then my dick is bilingual? I don’t know

TYS is playing in the Bosé
Everyone in my crew is Keyser Söze
Everyone’s in the hustle, everyone’s named José
There’s no Pharisee here, and if they turn, they’re gone

We’re sounding in your hood, in your stereo, in the media
The kilos, grams, and halves are coming out
We’ve got the goods, the balls, the halves
The kids with their faces covered, Rey Mysterio

Cousin, I look at the hood, but nothing’s the same
Yesterday he was your brother, and today he wants to see you fail
Everything changes except the sound of metal
The price of a gram and the zip code

I look at the hood, it looks like a documentary
He’s not a bricklayer, but he works with bricks and lime
He dodges the blue ones, he also hates the prosecutor
Sometimes he cooks, but he never wears an apron

He pretends to be a gangster, that face will betray you
You’ve hit a song on TikTok, but you’ll die a fan
Before being a singer, you hadn’t seen even 2000 in cash
Sorry, was that your girl? I’m not answering her anymore.