Shock (con falsalarma, artes 1/29, tote king, bajo mínimos, zénit y dj yulian)

Today beginners warn me, pour their credibility to the ground, and the little confidence they have, they lose. Sometimes I even think they don't understand, that speaking so badly, it's almost normal that they get dirty with their crap. And they rap, or just say they rap; they boast of having new lyrics, but they never show them.

Only their buddies are the ones who go along with it, the ones who will say they are at the highest point of this mess. And I'm calm, here with DJ Yulian, Santo, with a few other rays that illuminate this rain in this dirty and murky tide, making fakes disappear like blonde pesetas.

Problems in paradise, these monkeys have sneaked into your team without prior notice. Grab your stopwatch, record a promo and lose tone. After six minutes of rap, you ask, 'how?'. I sounded dirty, little by little, and I was slow; very important factors were ruin and fatigue.

That I was in a coma and already had a post-mortem rigor, perhaps the pen's revenge may be my thesis. Rapper's ease, like a micro shock we lose him, the audio poison is taking effect on him. A testament, all for Yulian. Tomorrow I will die again, and always for rap.

Seal, deals with beginners in raw rap; I sell them this cult chant like a narcotic. It's legendary, quick money, it's metallic king, for a dose of nine styles in symbiosis. Paralysis defines ecstasy in a realm of good and happy dreams, captured in a gray day.

Allow me to invite you to the encore with a remix in crisis, you will see how other dreams own all your emphasis. Your diss burns, as images of a crack spread, from my throat they come out like a tandem. They hit your temple and make the sign shine brightly; duel of titans, they are eight in the same skin.

I make this shit real, like graffiti or breakdancing. You seem gay like Justin Timberlake. I love this shit, Tote King, that stays recorded. Incredible, and it was improvised. I don't need to write on paper, just give me honey, spread on a joint and I smoke it, I'm in control. I do this shit, yes, I raise my tone.

Tote King no longer assumes, he presumes like a monkey, he could do it for more than a minute, more than an hour. Tote King controls this shit, you collaborate. You put down a good beat and I'll spit the rest, I'm going to improvise. I'm going to take you to heaven, and drop you with Satan.

It's Nach, not pigs and diamonds; it's rap for big lovers of sharp-edged rhymes. Beginners, feel the miracle. Opponents, feel the power of the word I speak. The guardian devil came to cover your back, I'm not Don Juan Pablo, but my blessing saves you.

Born in calm, night and caresses of one; pencil, paper and I vanish. Like Neptune, I feel like a god among these seas. With a domino effect I dominate and illuminate the path for kids. Hip-Hop forever, it's reflected in my mirror. Shock made Hip-Hop, a complex feeling.

Apotheotic rap, dream rap was introduced. Apocalyptic flow, MCs will explode in luxury. Soon Spain will not withstand the influence of the eight silver swords, you will run in fear. I look for paranormal phenomena; cult investigator, I'm a dog hunter.

I enjoy every beat of this track, it's instrumental, perfect, it's classy production. Directed attacks with lethal precision; cities, streets controlled by titans. Wild animals, final destinies. Yulian from Móstoles will muzzle.

In your trance I reached by looking at you, get out of your prison. I'm nobody, even if I appear on a poster. I'm still an angel, I'm still that kid looking for pleasure. Constantly per month, no later, the money in my account has two digits. Not bad. You flip out, I crumble on every corner. I want a normal life, but it eludes me and stabs me with its thorns. You will come without euros, methods, I have few. If prices go up, raise wages. I stay afloat as best I can, I make you see what I see when it smells of death in the position I hold as a convict.

Austin's pastel music, UPA Dance for rock castings. Timberlake's rap, Justin, on a pimp's album. Friends with bad taste, another disappointment for rap. What rap do I say, what a scare; pop is what he bet on, rap games for Sony, rap aesthetics of money. Super-rappers wear Tommy, because they play R&B.

Fat punk girl gets piercings instead of facelifts. In the rap kingdom missing for playing with this king. Free publicity in magazines for few smart girls, interviews, few artists; you don't get it and that's how you are. Zenith big shots, with Yulian on the scratches. Each MC 12 bars, a Shock is what you see.