Goya

Panas in tha back patching
And scratching the macoña
Boast of being the most hardcore
like a goya painting

That leaves them headless
(In that way)
that degoya them
And what jewels it clears them
cotoyas paradise

Or rather toyacos
Giving it to them as narcos
Sonic narcotics
Iconic of this story

Because today
Because of the havoc I stand out
And I'm like the piranha
In the dt avoiding the taco

And turn it up
Easy come, easy go
Is that mothafucka oblivion
Goin thru tha front door

Nigga

Not very fine style and lukas in pairs
I come across as petty
Chained felines

Cursed like sisyphus
I carry a stone on stilts
And from tobacconist to tobacconist
I am left lame and one-handed

listening to a tango
lustful song
And on a bitter beat
I sew their mouths

rap loves me
And sin is my groupie
my words fall apart
To plot with any pupi

And fuck me corny shit
Dog who stops jumping
In the middle of this crowd
They will kill me like Abraham Lincoln

And I pretend that nothing interests me
Without reaching 25 I already murdered my purity
And I replaced it with skill
An asarozo boombap and without a hint of cleanliness
A face of hate
And a thousand kilos of weed

I sit down to talk
With my midnight streak
While Ajax reminds me
That tonight there is no reproach

With the boombap I make a car
With rhymes I make a belt that
Never unbutton
And I'm piloting the night

From rubbing through the coven
Rest in the trance, and be careful
Where do you grab me?
That nothing will chance me anymore
They are matters of chance
The witches bind me
To not let me rap

And when you speak, take care
Don't bite your tongue
Poisoned teeth
For eating snakes
On a leg-breaking beat
Your hiphop walks on crutches
Moved by desires that
Show them your (tits)

Both red hot eyes
I'm ready for rap
I get myself killed for what
I write

I'm going back to the ranch
I am not very receptive
Just reset a little
I don't even notice time anymore

I don't chase the check
I don't show affection
I always leave it in view
So that he approaches me slowly

If I don't feel at the record company
I feed your discontent
I don't like the tyrant
From the sixteen hundred years

I'm not inventing the return
To steal from your countrywomen
Our Fathers are not prayed
For the gypsy malice

Without the wizards or the sickles
Pagan festivals are formed
You only need organic
Pair of liters and corduroys