paroles de chanson End of Letter - Quadroon & Tapley Sound

What u know bout getting up at, Five in the morning, to drive to a performance
Rhyme and record it, all before four hits
Thats the typa shit that I worship, on the floor-sit
Cross legged, with a purpose

Focused, you can see it my dreary eyes
Open, up my skull and you can read it live
If i seem deprived, dont pay it no mind brother
Thats just my hunger, mind high as a skyjumper

Thats my number, duty calls, i respond
Like wassup, im on the way, with a record to cut, mmm
Cutting ties like deals, i appeal to the real
Im so ill, it could kill, if you feel me

No meals, cold chills, in a still heat
Flow fill, whole build-ings, with real peeps
Kill sheets, everytime, any rhyme, spils, speak
With a tone like you know im in my zone, still free

Its the
Locally born, globally roaming poet wit the
Golden vocals chords, in other words-imma vet, only
Twenty three, and yet im looking at money tree
Right in front of me, i aint fronting you d-o-g's are my pet, lets

Go for a walk, throw a, ball at the park
Know i, swam with the sharks, so sick i need me a vet, fuck
Im on the ledge, i need a clown to push
Came right out the woods, i dont beat around the bush i just

Light and combust, the herbs, write and adjust, the words
Flying up like a bird and yet im, tryna to duck, from
The pigs, and the feds, the five-0, the twelve
Higher than steve-O, on cheap coke, i aint need no regrets, so

Im rolling the grass, ill throw in some hash, blowing my stash
Puffing a sack, while we blowing my stack
Nothing holding me back, putting holes full of lead in the backs
Of the cats just ahead, i dont fold, i dont crack

Under pressure, i get sicker like im under the weather
With a flow so cold, you'd think summer is over
Some will measure, some will bicker over whos better
That shits so old, we could talk bout it forever

Instead, lets just agree its Quadroon
My name the signature at the end of this bold letter