Bajo y Batería

I love it
I love it
I love it

I love letting them run free through the meadow
Making them feel like they have their whole life
And when they're almost reaching the border
I take out the wooden pencil
And blow their heads off

I'm the whip that lacerates your skin
From the fucking foreman at the sugar mill
I'm the last thing you'll see before you die
The hospital ceiling, the nurse's face

From this calf I eat the loin, the ribs
I eat even the skull
The tail, the neck, I leave nothing on the plate
Even Shakira runs out of hips

I come with the axe in the glove compartment
Like a Native American, scalping heads
I make them raise flags behind the trench
While the residents cool in the fridge

I've swept them so much when it comes to rhyming
That even the witches don't have brooms to fly
Without exaggerating
I've swept them so much that I'm going to have to go to another solar system
I sweep them horizontally, vertically
Even perpendicularly
No one in the urban genre smiles at me anymore
Because I turned their teeth into a necklace

Now a line of losers tries
Looking for how to pay next month's rent
Because I mention them only once
And I feed them for a month

These tongue-waggers
Their bibs get wet
Saying I'm not a rapper, but
No one wants to battle against second, nor third
Nor against the fourth
Everyone wants the first

You prove me right
In this pantheon
Everyone wants to battle against the champion
They don't even reach the fifth step
Their pants fall because my belt is too big for them

Not even among the top thirty, asshole
Not even with sign language they enter the conversation
Not even with the death penalty they have good execution
Not even if they beg Omar they have the gift

Today the population will increase
Because I'm going to give it to you until the condom breaks
Now without further interruption, Cosculluela
Here's your mention so you can pay child support

Every day this napkin thug
Closes his eyes and clenches his fists
He makes a wish on the comets
That one day the secret police will chase him
He wants to be the most wanted
Along with his gang, the white panthers of Humacao
From his porcelain neighborhood
He has wet dreams with Tony Montana
His fantasies with his big guns
Are full of fairy godmothers, elves, and dragons
What I like the most
Is that he thinks his lukewarm egg look scares us
He thinks he intimidates people
With his divorced lady face
No matter how hard he paddles, the boat sinks
He wants to be a big shot and at the same time a priest
The buddy is confused
He reads the Bible, but hits his wife on the head
With his made-up religion
He hits pregnant women

He throws them against the ground
No matter how much you pray, pigs like you don't go to heaven
No one believes you anymore, well
Only those who write Residente with C

And a couple of bloggers
The more reggaeton they are, the more nonsensical they are
Rhyming 'fonalleda' with 'ceda' - they've told me
And what do I rhyme it with? With ass? Smell-bug
I have these brutes by the balls
Since I came out in 2005
I never saw an elephant fly
Nor did I see Maikey Backstage do a relevant interview

They are frustrated singers who never made it
They talk about cooking, but never cooked
The opinion of these learned ones is worthless
Nor Revol's, with his wrinkled testicle face

In short, these are the ones who have applauded you
And J Balvin's fans who are still hurt

Well, back to the initial topic
I continue with the cop who trusts the judicial system
Who says Tego doesn't give it to me
I don't need Tego's permission to break you at Christmas
Damn snitch
If you knew what Tego thinks of you, you wouldn't have written that line

You're the only asshole in the label
Who confessed to having tasted camel piss
Poor Santa
The camel's dick and balls pierced his throat
While they were writing the song
They filled his mouth with piss and he came to the conclusion
The man with ass hair on his head
That the piss tasted like my beer

I feel tenderness for this chop
I replied and he went out to make T-shirts
Not for sale, not for a penny
You can't even open a croquette kiosk
Your career is in a coma with artificial respiration
It doesn't turn on even with jumper cables
It doesn't turn on even with 100 bottles of mezcal
Perico, shooting in the air and regional music
It doesn't turn on even with an aluminum oven
Shooting at you is like, um, shooting at Dominio
You're going to be great, after I bury you
The day Beni Beni can pronounce the R
Rrrrrrr litedal

Tdes tdistdes tigdes eat tdigo in the tdigal
That if the AK, that if the Beretta
That if the -, that if the shotguns
Tell - that Resi respects him
The day he learns to write a complete sentence
Because I'm the word that penetrates
Like a bullet when I turn my bullets into letters
To these thugs
I break them more than Alejandro's broken heart
They want to mess with what I am and what I was
Now I bring them more war than Juan Luis

With the pencil, I Shot To Kill
When I get hostile
I raise the [R] in the profile
And they tremble more than Anitta's buttocks at the carnival in Brazil

I'm fucking Chernobyl
Like North Korea, always with my finger on the missile button
I kill him and don't see it coming
With the lunch knife like in the juvenile
Because he has no ability, no skill
And he's dumber than April Fools' Day
This paper thug is so dumb
That everyone knows Inside is for him, except him

He throws lines he didn't even believe
What torments you since Inside came out is me
An idealist without ideas, that punchline amazed me
Like a cattle ranch without cattle
Like a War without soldiers
Like a barbecue without meat
Like a future without past
Like the caliber I calibrate
Very creative
You are like a bookstore without books

When I mention Trooko
Mueka's face melts on his shoulders
This overweight weevil is very lazy
He has so much cheeks that he doesn't have eyes anymore
His ass face is a play
He opens his mouth and looks like he's on all fours
Another one who thinks he's a commoner
I'm going to tear off a piece of the trunk of the bug to give him a neck

This can get violent, physical
Even though I'm like the Pacific Ocean
If they provoke me, we'll take a little tour of Villa Margarita
I, settled accounts, Trujillo backs me up
Brian and Maniaco watching my back
To the little thugs, I break them
They don't even reach with their best jump
Because Trujillo is Tall

I never shot, but I always wrote
I'm not street, but my crew is
I dismantle you into pieces
Prrum!, if you catch me on the street, you lower your head

The problem is not that you've been rich since you were a kid
It's simple, I'll explain it to you
The problem is that an arrogant, like him, pretended
To be from a neighborhood where he wasn't born
Disguising himself as a thug up to his neck
And, with his music, motivating them to kill each other
Fronting and kicking like a filly
Those who end up on the street is because they had no other

But this carousel jockey
Who grew up eating at a table with a tablecloth
While the neighborhood he fronts with ate paper
He was with his mouth full of cake

Your last name is not from the street, dear
It's as if the Montaners started singing Narcocorridos
It's as if Kim Kardashian with her sisters
Thought they were part of the Italian mafia

To sum it up, it's as if someone from San Isidro
A smoke seller, like no other
Someone who never missed a breakfast
Thinks he's from Villa 31

But this golden crib lamb
Thinks he's a bull for hitting his ex-wife against the toilet
That's why your career is in decline rhymes
Like dinosaur rhymes with meteor

I vented already, now I'm going to stop all the beef, now!
I'm not going to diss anyone else
I swear, I promise, now
It's over, I don't care assholes
Now!
Yaa!
I want to be a balladeer
I want to be a balladeer, like
Like
Like Ricky Martin

I want to be a balladeer!