Tell me mother Why did you cry? Why did you keep the rage inside? Was the answer underneath? The misery and pain that we feel for a child, for a man
Wonder from the Neural Bombing Agency We control the watch tower now, Power of assembly in crowds, hypnosis The only closest pattern to our process
[uncredited spoken word poets form the song's intro] "After a week of smoky nothingness.." {*voice SLOWED down* ".. the stars had returned
there's nothing to be afraid of What you just did was fall to the depths of existence The place the mind keeps you away from by it's own process of building
the streets is just a head game So, therefore to make more A fifteen year old black kid will go and rob a liquor store And get shot in the process He
Bad guys win folks! You know I don't always play a lot of music on the show, as most of it these days is processed, bubble gum bullshit - churned
lock // He apparently kept more wax than Madame Tussaud // We were in total awe cause it blew our minds // So many rhymes that were intricately designed // He WAS poet
maze, my bang'll tip with any rapper These days, spittin venom when my wordplay sprays And claimin half this cash regardless, dome my target From the heart spittin my flow while slow niggaz process
Maze, my bang'll tip with any rapper these days, spittin venom when my wordplay sprays and claimin half this cash regardless, dome my target from the heart spittin my flow while slow niggaz process
Two Times I've Been Here Before And Not Like These Things Affect But Sometimes The Process Of Thought Can Make Me Dream Up What I Think Are The
the streets is just a head game So therefore, to make more A fifteen year old black kid will go and rob a liquor store And get shot in the process He
Nucleo Operativo Comitato Censura Audio, sequestro n 61440031, brano di contenuto sovversivo n 2354779, provenienza Milano blocco Venier, Baraccopoli smantellati, autori processati
[Sampled Intro: same outro from Poet Laureate] Uhh I dont understand how a writer could ever get writer's block, so called My problem is having too much
tra milioni di persone, che intorno a te inventano l'inferno. Ti scopri a cantare una canzone, cercare nel tuo caos un punto fermo. Vent'anni ne poeta
e la musica non si fara!... Niente canzoni, stasera e di scena un processo alla celebrita! Chi sta sul palco e un istrione o un poeta smascheriamo
