Lyrics Byellville - Jack Parow

Jack Parow back for another fokken piss straight
Keep your eyes open of jy mag my fokken miskyk
Take your baby for some chips and fokken vis rate
Blow up the jol like a meid from blerrie Buskryt
Almal is like fokkit Parow is just great
He is so slick you could swear it's fokken Mince Mate
Die fokken woorde van die straat took a renegade
So high energy, I piss fokken Energade
I'm here to rap, not to make fokken movies
I'm so next level, my fokken groupies have groupies
So whatchu gonna do when your moederfokken boat sails
All these rappers hanging on Jack Parow's coat tails
I'm buying entjies with my piggybank cents
I move back to my mom cause I can't pay my rent
Playing real life Risk,
Conquering country for country
One for one until the next one wants me
Uh, die fokken Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou boude skud
Uh, jy fokken hou van dit
Uh, fokken holy shit
Uh, die fokken Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou boude skud
Uh, jy fokken hou van dit
Uh, fokken holy shit
Yo, K.O. moederfokker. Round 2 fight
It's wound too tight, I'm fokken bound to bite
Shit sounds just right spoeg kak kak tight
So luister mooi and fokken walk towards the white light
Die rapper uit die bosse langs die N1 highway
Almal fokken like my, nou dat ek die mic kry
By the way there's no where to hide away
Ek spoeg fokken yster jou kak is fokken high gay
Kom long vir long en long drop bombs
Kom om en om en fok ons rond
Fok wie is die jong fokken nies vol gom
So pop my fokken CD in jou CD-Rom
Yooo, eks fokken fly like Batman
Raps so sick moet heeltyd gan vir 'n cat-scan
Quick, vinnig, hardloop, to the Jack van
Raps so tight you could swear I was a black man
Uh, die fokken Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou boude skud
Uh, jy fokken hou van dit
Uh, fokken holy shit
Uh, die fokken Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou boude skud
Uh, jy fokken hou van dit
Uh, fokken holy shit
Check, I fokken grew up in a kak plek
Raised on pap and WWF
Kol kak common, en kak zef
Kak by jou kak hos fok of jy's kak drek
Change in my pocket
Heads full of jokes ou
Sundays took my girl to the Spur for a coke float
No money for a car, sy moes op my fiets ry
No money for steak, or cheese in my schnitzel
What's that called? It's called cordon-bleuuhhh
We rolled cordroy pants and gelled up hair
Stone cold shirts and orange bomber jackets
Tape walkman's and Pick 'n Pay packets
I come from a town where no one's fokken from
A little bit of money and poof and they're gone
But I'm Byellville bru, see why 'till I die
So come down to Byellville and fokken see why
Uh, die fokken Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou boude skud
Uh, jy fokken hou van dit
Uh, fokken holy shit
Uh, die fokken Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou boude skud
Uh, jy fokken hou van dit
Uh, fokken holy shit