paroles de chanson Hold Mine - Atmosphere , Illogic , Aesop Rock , Blueprint
You
know
it's
fucked
up
when
your
own
little
brother
won't
bump
your
shit
(Where
am
I
comin'
in?)
Yo,
you
walk
into
the
place
with
your
own
Little
brother
and
be
like,
"Yo,
check
it
out."
(Yeah,
thanks
a
lot
Just
make
sure
that
you
keep
your
mouth
closed.)
This
is
my
motherfuckin'
little
brother
And
people
say,
"Ayo,
why
your
big
brother
act
like
that?
(Yo
shut
the
fuck
up
when
you're
talkin'
to
me.)
Fuck
him.
He
ain't
no
rapper."
(Yo,
what
the
fuck's
your
problem?)
Yo,
shut
the
fuck
up
and
die
is
what
I
really
want
to
say
to
you
I
hope
someone
hits
you
in
the
face
til
it's
80
different
shades
of
blue
Isn't
there
anything
better
you
got
to
do
then
jock
my
crew?
I
severe
contenders
and
render
the
hearing
process
impossible
You
talk
trash
behind
my
back
and
act
like
you
know
me
But
when
you
see
me
at
the
show
you
give
me
dap
like
we're
homies
Remember
Bad
Day?
Thought
I
was
through
talkin'
shit
And
now
I'm
like,
"Fuck
the
world"
Just
cause
you
walk
on
it
Yo,
the
stink
of
burnt
s
inches
into
the
end
zone,
Where
every
breath
of
bad
karma's
reciprocated
tenfold,
Enjoy
the
last
boogie
when
life
raises
the
gavel,
It
symbolizes
your
very
last
chance
to
act
like
an
asshole.
Plastic
soldiers
grabbing
at
their
holsters,
Trying
to
burst
imaginary
heaters
in
their
ghost
wars,
Each
jackle
eventually
slipped
backwards,
Showcasing
how
to
best
waste
your
life
by
trying
to
dismantle
the
patchwork.
If
you
pass
this
test
I'm
be
sure
to
pin
your
red
badge
of
courage
through
your
chest
flesh
With
swift
hands
The
way
your
blood
will
flood
you'll
switch
plans
Til
blue
waters
is
red
quick
sand
Sinkin'
deeper
into
the
potion
I'll
bottle
my
jizzm
and
sell
it
to
your
wisdom
as
some
hand
lotion
I
walk
the
fine
line
of
being
ill
and
being
sick
And
you
walk
the
fine
line
of
being
a
pussy
and
being
a
bitch
I
hold
attention
spans
like
drums
sticks
and
play
solos
That
sound
like
Coltrane
High
on
cocaine
And
now
the
clouds
are
quarter
notes
And
I'm
a
mortal
man
thinkin'
I
can
float
but
Maybe
I'm
delirious
And
this
is
a
psychedelic
experience
Either
way
I
know
it
makes
me
a
better
lyricist
And
you
ain't
hardly
hard
In
fact
you
a
coward
That
back
bites
behind
closed
doors
like
Marv
Albert
It's
the
sour
taste
of
self
esteem
swallowed
through
a
straw
Enough
to
make
your
stomach
bloat
and
leave
a
swollen
jaw
I'm
holdin'
balls
You're
holdin'
breath
How
much
of
your
soul
is
left?
Frozen
steps,
snooze
button,
perpetual
overslept
Wake
the
fuck
up
And
sit
the
fuck
down
Shut
your
fuck
hole
And
ask
yourself,
"What
now?"
Rippin'
the
shreds
Lift
'em
by
the
heads
Spin
'em
around
And
let
'em
look
at
what
they
did
to
the
bread
Roll
over,
sit,
fetch,
play
dead,
beg
The
political
allotment
walks
with
a
peg
leg
I
pack
celebrations
of
an
awkward
opus
Not
because
it's
fly
But
simply
because
I
can
identify
I
carry
the
type
of
clout
That
sneaks
below
the
radar
The
less
they
know
about
IS
the
more
I
can
take
apart
I
got
a
few
famous
alter
egos
inside
of
my
frame
It's
how
I
deal
with
these
people
that
don't
know
my
real
name
I
fired
the
angels
Hired
a
miser
to
hide
in
the
rainbows
And
murdered
the
worthless
merchants
purely
For
kickin'
the
same-ole-same-ole
You're
what
happens
when
God
hiccups
The
contents
in
a
fraction
of
my
product
Will
leave
your
whole
project
crushed
The
Orphanage
Got
a
quality
crew
You
got
a
bunch
of
teeny
boppers
following
you
All
you
pastel
poets
I'm
talkin'
to
you
Who's
the
gay
rapper?
It's
probably
you
Word
Print,
they
all
ho
cakes
No
flavor
like
cookies
that
are
no
bake
I
like
sacks
fully
budded
up
with
no
shake
We
prepare
rare
forms
five
snow
flakes
The
wack
get
no
brakes
Now
these
here
brittle
bitches
Cuddle
up
to
syncopated
sixes
In
triplicate
I
cripple
it
just
to
fiddle
with
the
syllabus
I
hate
slackers
They
burn
through
my
city
By
thickening
up
the
atmosphere
And
thinning
out
the
madness
Ah,
whatever
the
language
Blueprint
freaks
it
well
From
visual
basic
Down
to
Speak
And
Spell
I'll
even
battle
these
weak
MCs
with
braille
Not
to
be
fucked
with
Any
MC
can
tell
Cause
you
the
cat
that
packs
pink
caps
to
piece
they
thought
train
I
sodomize
him
with
six
broomsticks
to
watch
him
walk
strange
Slug
drowns
him
in
spit
Eyedea
snaps
the
camera
Aesop
prepares
eulogies
In
iambic
pentameter
It's
the
Orphanage
Certified
Kevorkians
Rappers
be
torturing
my
dick
Chap
lips
will
leave
the
foreskin
ripped
Unless
you're
givin'
props
Put
a
cork
in
it
As
I
give
you
a
new
reason
Never
to
record
your
shit
We
spent
the
most
time
Workin'
this
gold
mine
Everybody's
got
their
own
stories
I
wrote
mine
Everybody's
got
their
own
words
You
quote
mine
Everybody
thinks
I'm
fuckin'
nuts
Wanna
hold
mine?
Attention! N'hésitez pas à laisser des commentaires.