Endemoniado (con loren y zpu)

Placing and working the foundations of the castle,
destroying what I planned since I was a kid. With a stick figure, with the hill and its group, with Cristóbal and another rhythm that comes out of the pocket. In this corner, no one messes with me;
you'll be the damn monkey Chita and I the gorilla. Mom can't get you out of this, with my soul I made a bet, and I'm serious, very serious. I came out from among the dead, born in a cemetery.

Today here you have me explaining my criteria. I know there's no excuse, I wasn't born in the USA, I have more than enough having my muse. Smell of concrete, asphalt, and truck fumes. I need to make a song to be happy. We're hooked like a fair to the confetti; like a baby to the bottle, I feed on the nipple. I suffer from the heart, they won't clone me. There's no scientist in the world capable of copying such a damn kid. Discipline of choice, I don't need it if I take them for granted.

The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric. The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric.

People of my kind should be forbidden, the truths from my mouth often sound suicidal. You don't forget them like those runs, you miss them and they left you sore. I say, move, make way and walk. It's what you take even if you travel in a Panda, from side to side. It's not you, but the blind one who commands you. Come on, I ask for a turn and I return from revelry.

I have a soft mind from a railing hit, I hold onto your neck with a scarf complex. But well, my lyrics contain kerosene, I want breast with poison for my debut LP. The prize has been to do it and cook it myself, whatever comes doesn't matter if I repeat the offense. Sometimes you can see me absent, not that I'm in the vine, my unconscious dominates me.

The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric. The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric. What do you say, kid? The master of ceremonies shouts.

Who has the technique and rules the metric, who chews them and brings the richest and least typical shit. I bring factory rap, point me to the girl, and I'll immediately put the means to sacrifice her. I'm like a devil, condemned to use words to tell you what I have inside. I talk about doing this well, try another attempt, slow. I see your accent, you look tired, man, you lack breath. Wind, whoever wants it all, ends up with nothing, and whoever lies down with kids, wets their pillow.

Amateur excuses don't work here, flip it, now go and crack it and tell it to Parada. But not to me, because I'll crush you. Losers, I enlighten you, because you disgust me and I can't imagine myself like you. I came to crush with Loren, decorate these three and don't cry for us, because these three might devour you.

First in a second my mic and I leave you in third, in my room I'm that fifth element always accurate. With a sixth sense I write and fly, I rise to reach the seventh heaven, to then come back down. The eighth passenger from his abode observes this world he doesn't see, I don't know if there are still sane people. A tenth of the Once might solve something for me, but my bronze is the rap I discharge. With or without money, I manage.

So I bewitch them and drive them crazy, when the twelve chimes cease, I'll return to my Tuesday the thirteenth. Fourteen years in this, master, although sometimes I'm totally wasted. Even with a blind man of the fifteenth I give the rest. You've known it since my sixteenth, this demon possesses me and it's easy for me to hit you wherever you are. Because the beast is still loose, and it's ruled by an expert hand, who challenges me, I give them seventeen laps, no doubt.

Sale prohibited for minors under eighteen, that's the shit I waste, raw and gray. And after the nineteenth symphony, are you still following me? You're crazy, one against twenty MCs and it's not enough for me. Until I lose twenty-one grams I'll leave you on the roadside, twenty-two machine gun shots for those who don't respect. I don't wear the twenty-three on my shirt, but I sweat it. Twenty-four hours a day of pure Hip-Hop.

The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric. The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric.

Hip-Hop has been everything and I'm fighting for everything, against wind and tide I walk aimlessly. Deep feeling, I shit on the whole world, on my big ears and also on Dumbo's. The thong and the briefs invited me to their wedding; indispensable condition, to make my rap fashionable. In the end, I stayed at home eating my balls, on the couch and lazy, drinking whiskey with soda.

White glove thief, one-armed. I've lost the papers, the ones I buy at the kiosk in the ravine of the Tranco. They told me a thousand stories, stories of a mother with nostalgia in her memory. I've seen them kicking, Bisbales, Bustamantes, and Chenoas, they're good pets like my dog Noa. I jump off the bow of a ship already ownerless; poets or folders, your style makes me sleepy.

The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric. The master of ceremonies shouts; possessed, that's how he explains it. The demon of the ceremony shouts. Master on the throne, rules the metric.