Hyperaptive - Sick to death | Текст песни

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• Hyperaptive
• Sick to death

If I had to list the shit that just rubs me the wrong-way,
Well that's a long list , so this could be a long-day !
My mind's a volcano about to blow a strong-spray,
Of lava on the world and leave it burnt like Pompeii,
But first off-on-the-list,
Would be the whirlwind of monotonous-pricks,
Getting signed up, thinking they're hot-in-their-whips,
When they're as talented as a piece of rhinoceros-shit,
Those and the ones flopping-their-lips,
About how they're on the block, and they're poppin'-them-clips,
You're not a blood, and you're not-in-the-crips,
Don't give a fuck where you're from you'll get shot-in-your-ribs,
This industry needs a sarcophagus-quick,
I truly hope Rick Ross trips, and his esophagus-rips,
It's just as well I aint famous or up-in-the-Brits,
What with the murderous thoughts I have as often-as-this,
Sick of living lower-class,
Where we're all on benefits, shottin or we're growing-grass,
Crazy mentalities growing-fast,
So many stabbings now, even the news reports aint so-aghast,
Pissed off with this block-mentality,
Everyone in the role of being lost-in-tragedy,
From a kid, this attitude's adopted-gradually,
Til you just repeat the cycle of concocted-fallacies,
Sick of rappers claiming that they represent-the-slums,
When there aint a track they ever made that don't mention-guns,
Either that or they parade how they spent-their-funds,
Posing with chicks in a whip they only rented-once!
Sick of being broke-as-hell,
In a city where nearly everyone else is broke-as-well!
Every track I ever made I devote-myself,
But with this game full of fakes how am I supposed-to-sell?!
Wondering if I'll make a living off Hip-Hop,
'Cause right now, I'm living off the chicken and chip-shop,
Pissed off with being pissed-off!
Pissed off there aint a fucking point where this list-stops !
Sick of all these phony-friends,
Acting close, but only wanna know-me-when,
It's useful, might as well of not known-me-ten,
Days ago, But if I blow I bet I'll be your homie-then !
Sick of not getting respect-I-deserve,
Not even a third, see the skill etched-in-my-words,
Aint really sure if I'm blessed-or-I'm-cursed,
To be addicted to these rhymes and perfecting-this-verse,
Pissed of with being human,
Stuck on a rock with infinite mysteries looming,
We should be moving forward and improving,
Instead we're all clones, too busy with consuming,
Everybody just spewing the same platitudes,
God forbid someone greets me with an attitude,
'Cause with the way I'm feeling now, you'll be battered-bruised,
Blown apart and left on the ground as a pair of scattered-shoes,
Sick of Earth man I'm leaving,
Pissed off with every thought I'm conceiving,
Why stay? Can't even think of a reason,
Matter of fact I'm sick of breathing.

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