MetaMorpheus
Sa-Roc
It don't seem real that I've been away for ten years.
The scene feel familiar from Benning road to Ben Hill.
Landscape full of crabs, snakes in the grass, you don't watch em, they might off u with a blade from the killing fields.
Homie, I'm a sharecroppers daughter and I still owe, niggas here was worth their weight in gold, Patna-Steel Pulse.
Now we on the sidelines tryna to find an ally and an affinity for Allah will turn u into a scapegoat.
And every since Jansports and Sambas I been on the run. Place got me sleep with one eye open wide, insomnia.
Thought I paid my dues watching my muses burning rocks, but obviously I am still mired to a debt that I can't wander from.
That's Choc city. Buck fifty for the glocks-any stock.
Where Hustlas sell Dasani to Atlantic Ocean-penny stock.
Luster starts to fade when the fresh coats every winter stop.
I learned all that I needed tween these educated city blocks.
What you don't know is we are-more than the city.
We've been so close yet so far-ain't that a pity
Trading freedom for just enough-land of the plenty
No one's gon change it but us.
Bars like vocal analyses, Probing deep in your maladies, how the freak can you challenge me.
I'm the people's champ, Ali.
See this is liquid I'm leaking into your psyche enticing those seeds to flowers, by sonnet peep the analogy.
Maybe it was providence polishing this crystal from gravel.
Cuz high society shun u after existence in Babel.
No one seems to understand us, words are too twisted in fragments.
Crumbling and decomposing on the lips of the tragic.
Despite it all the writers with a voice one dimensional.
Their One liners fraught with cliches non-original.
Imma slice and spiralize these charades,son-elliptical.
Naked truth in the midst of masquerades is so critical.
Daddy's in the bottom of the bottle cuz he think I'm lost.
Keep verses bright with modicums of shade to get my point across.
This is just but one of many pages in the catacombs.
The makings of a Pharoah from favelas that's ironic, huh?
What you don't know is we are-more than the city.
We've been so close yet so far-ain't that a pity
Trading freedom for just enough-land of the plenty
No one's gon change it but us
compositores: Sa-Roc
Você é fã de Sa-Roc? Gosta da letra da música?
Compartilhe com seus amigos.
The scene feel familiar from Benning road to Ben Hill.
Landscape full of crabs, snakes in the grass, you don't watch em, they might off u with a blade from the killing fields.
Homie, I'm a sharecroppers daughter and I still owe, niggas here was worth their weight in gold, Patna-Steel Pulse.
Now we on the sidelines tryna to find an ally and an affinity for Allah will turn u into a scapegoat.
And every since Jansports and Sambas I been on the run. Place got me sleep with one eye open wide, insomnia.
Thought I paid my dues watching my muses burning rocks, but obviously I am still mired to a debt that I can't wander from.
That's Choc city. Buck fifty for the glocks-any stock.
Where Hustlas sell Dasani to Atlantic Ocean-penny stock.
Luster starts to fade when the fresh coats every winter stop.
I learned all that I needed tween these educated city blocks.
What you don't know is we are-more than the city.
We've been so close yet so far-ain't that a pity
Trading freedom for just enough-land of the plenty
No one's gon change it but us.
Bars like vocal analyses, Probing deep in your maladies, how the freak can you challenge me.
I'm the people's champ, Ali.
See this is liquid I'm leaking into your psyche enticing those seeds to flowers, by sonnet peep the analogy.
Maybe it was providence polishing this crystal from gravel.
Cuz high society shun u after existence in Babel.
No one seems to understand us, words are too twisted in fragments.
Crumbling and decomposing on the lips of the tragic.
Despite it all the writers with a voice one dimensional.
Their One liners fraught with cliches non-original.
Imma slice and spiralize these charades,son-elliptical.
Naked truth in the midst of masquerades is so critical.
Daddy's in the bottom of the bottle cuz he think I'm lost.
Keep verses bright with modicums of shade to get my point across.
This is just but one of many pages in the catacombs.
The makings of a Pharoah from favelas that's ironic, huh?
What you don't know is we are-more than the city.
We've been so close yet so far-ain't that a pity
Trading freedom for just enough-land of the plenty
No one's gon change it but us
compositores: Sa-Roc
Você é fã de Sa-Roc? Gosta da letra da música?
Compartilhe com seus amigos.
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