Come inside my thought chamber..Come count the breaths trapped in my chest My confidence won’t be affected as long as Mahmoud is by my side,
And Suhells’ got my back like a spine.. If you compute what I am saying, my crew keep it one hunnid (100%) We dive professionally while my words connect deep in the flow, With the patience of Job until the montage reaches the roof like Michealangelo With my finger, the type of colour that turns every letter into a living being, Breathing life into them. It becomes my sword – hotter than a Jordan summer – I could’ve Picked a different country but I am so addicted to the rhymes, to the Folklore, Understand, my words can move the Eiffel tower into [email protected]#kin’ London Sometimes my metaphors are misunderstood – an example I dunk on your lyrical black holes like Michael Jordan. THE CHORUS TRANSLATES ITSELF #YABIGDUMMY We’re always moving forward not backwards – because being me, there is emptiness and no dreams. It’s been 12 years we’ve been bearing the burdens of rap and I don’t even have money for this gas. But I have words that can free your mind. Everyone screaming ‘Arab Rap!’, But Everyone is copying Western Rappers Get that away from me, that’s not my logic I’m not here to here to clown around, I’m on a mission. However Mahmoud, I produce poetic volcano lava off the dome that suits me like a Tarboosh on the head of a Turkish man. The reality is God, I’m a sacrifice, this is how I felt until I was armed with a pen and I wrote consciousness I speak of myself, my people, my misery, my land, my frustration, This is my poetry. You can say I got poetry in a head lock, Ta’batta Sharran (Pre- Islamic Arabian Poet) If you want to go to war, let’s make it happen but in my class, we will be cheering and celebrating. THE CHORUS TRANSLATES ITSELF #YABIGDUMMY Ha? You Can Hear me, Right? We’re asleep spiritually physically..
what’s going on? I spoke to you about hunger and you bring money? A Stack won’t feed me or benefit me Dear Sir… The heat of these words melted my hands.. But The Rap Was Prosperous.
and my Arabic can be Preposterous.. The Freedom was Momentary..
A veiled microphones rocking spots… like conversations between Arakat and Netenyahu with a Moses Complex.
If it’s easier in basketball terms.
Mahmoud passed me the ball, I narce-assisted Tamer and he completed the Ali-oop (Alley-oop) We exchanged High Fives and Brought the Pain, Pain!! Dear Overzealous rappers, I beg you: Leave the studio and go back to your tents. My Jamaican brothers would respond ‘Booyaka Bookoom’ My son, What do I tell your father? When the realest poets lose their minds and eat you alive…