lirik lagu hyperaptive – sick to death
sick to death
if i had to list the sh-t 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-pr-cks
getting signed up, thinking they’re hot-in-their-whips
when they’re as talented as a piece of rhinoceros-sh-t
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 f-ck 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 ain’t famous or up-in-the-brits
what with the murderous thoughts i have as often-as-this
sick of living lower-cl-ss
where we’re all on benefits, shottin or we’re growing-gr-ss
crazy mentalities growing-fast
so many stabbings now, even the news reports ain’t so-aghast
p-ssed off with this block-mentality
everyone in the role of being lost-in-tragedy
from a kid, this att-tude’s adopted-gradually
til you just repeat the cycle of concocted-fallacies
sick of rappers claiming that they represent-the-slums
when there ain’t 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-h-ll
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
p-ssed off with being p-ssed-off!
p-ssed off there ain’t a f-cking 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 sk!ll etched-in-my-words
ain’t really sure if i’m blessed-or-i’m-cursed
to be addicted to these rhymes and perfecting-this-verse
p-ssed 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 plat-tudes
god forbid someone greets me with an att-tude
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
p-ssed 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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