Sin7ven - The Tower ft. YAC | Текст песни

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• Sin7ven
• The Tower ft. YAC

[Sin7ven: Verse 1]
I'm a producer plus I spit and get your head moving
Writing notes and cutting samples like a med student
Kanye's right, a super hero needs a theme music
Plus their Lex Luthor, and we are here to see to it

(Hi!) I'm the Deadman, hit me up at some time
Brain food's the best pick-me-up of unlife
If you expecting rap of pixie dust and sunshine
This the wrong fucking neighborhood for you to come by

Opposition turn to smoldering piles
Once they come and get a sip of my wicked cauldron of rhymes
They feel the flavor, skills are major, I'm on my ill behavior
And like dominoes our foes are falling in line

Spit fire 'til my tongue needs and ashtray
Damn straight I'm bagging on your fraudulent campaigns
Slash veins, close your coffin and slam nails
I'm sick, you just have a cancerous fan base

[YAC: Verse 2]

Ain’t got a leash, don’t run the streets but I own a crew
I’m not a priest or anyone to pay your homage to
Spray ya shots, relay the cops
I used to be a dorky kid who worshiped God, now I pray to Pac

Fuckin fans think I’m evil and I’m growing horns
Like the scene but different people fuck you like a hoe in porn
My woes are worn, and all the cats I know are torn
I hate to rap but Gun and Flow won’t let me close the door

So drop ya ego, making haters emo
Artists take their papers, flop it later at casinos
Imma do this my way, and I don’t care on who trends
You should pray to god and make a noose to tie your loose ends

I’m living life well and had my spin
And givin the knights all up in white hell, they mad I sin
(Yeah) Not lending any flair, I’m glad I’m in
Broluminati, it’s the ending where the bad guy wins

[Sin7ven: Verse 3]
I'm the red grim reaper with a ridiculous scythe
Comprised of microphone parts and litter I find
You picking a fight?
The fickle of mind who flow weak get cold feet, and frozen icicles for spines

You figuring why, we don't have to try to smash a veteran
Why do I size other rappers up? For casket measurements
New fans like, "oh my god, you rap like Eminem"
As if he's the only non-wack white rapper there's ever been

Settle in, the ride never end, we monstrous
Psychological warfare for conscious kids
This is bonkers, it's Mr. Sin and Cats, spitting raps
Leaving tracks wrapped in linen wrap

The critics chat, but don't affect us
When I appear with smeared hands, no, it's not even close to ketchup
I hold the mic, poke it through below your solar plexus
And spit over your heart beat as breathing slows and then stops

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