The mixed environment is cosmopolite.
Actions are cosmpolitical.
We were elected envoys, we all are transferred to here.
We are what of a hand?
Among the juvenile lives based on orders, we are entrusted to obedience.
Who are we?
Somebody rings our bell and we call our names.
We are what of a hand?
How many lives those queues have taken that I have waited for ordinary things.
Retiree crawled a lot, deadbeat.
And the ambulance didn’t make it.
And we are left critically to calamity.
Even though the traffic is slack, deaths are charismatic.
Look mister, watch my name!
I am not kidding.
God added satire to the rap science.
And Sago’s tongue has never bounced.
I didn’t become a saint. I am a flower which doesn’t green.
How many stupid I have watched in the palaces of my country.
Their words were funny.
Artificial rallies.
Speaking to the crowd from a paper.
Exotic promises without one gram of truth.
Chorus
Hey my tongue. Help me. This song is long.
So are wounds at my back.
My body is on the ice.
And sliding the last ramp.
And rapidly gives pain to my body.
Your salt hurts all my scratched holes.
The shadow of the day is scraped on the mountains.
The oppressed listened the poetical.
Untouchable monuments of the ones whose proxies couldn’t exceed themselves.
Uselessness of tons of vocal cords.
Howling tunes in bed.
At the end of the unconductable jobs, can my heaven walk forward?
Don’t worry, I am locked to you.
I didn’t go to that ballot box with a vote until this age.
What makes a human a human is a thought.
A free and democratic stage.
This is a country, I am a citizen.
Of course I can think.
Morphine doesn’t affect my tongue, my pen is sneaky.
My hands are guilty.
I ejaculate while rapping.
I climb the hill while kicking you.
My tongue is harsh, my rap is brave. That’s it.