It's NOT Cool

Blacked-out hoodies, blacked-out jeans, and blacked-out shoes.

They stay all around, only willing to come out at night like

rodents.

These are the heroes of the streets, the heroes that save the day

with their impressive feats.

They’re the Batmans of Gotham, the real OGs, not any fake stan

with bland, crammed, fanned heads as cans, but educated in the

art of tapestry.

Their rhymes and lines soothe over the mind in vivid images of

the times that they spent sliding and grinding against the birds

of the sky or the dogs of policy.

The thrill of it is like ecstasy, making you feverishly chase and

chase, dodging from case to case. It's fun and games until one of

your fellow rodents gets eaten or flown away; that's when you

really discover the pain.

We love this life, its glamour and everything it offers: endless

women, cars and bottle poppers. Your head amongst the stars

and other partners.

We love their clothes, the way they make us fold, their ice to make

it cold, their inner outs exposing their souls.

We love the freedom that they get, not a care in the world to

repay their debt.

We love the grind and the danger expected, we love the blood

and the saint's rejection.

There isn't a better life than this. To be a Clyde and have a

Bonnie misses. To have the tension rise to the thickest, surviving

bullet shots ‘cause they missed this, couldn't touch this, having

their names on a hit list.

We love the bravery, the quote on quote “masculinity” to fig

against the great enmity. We love to highlight routes so that we

don't cross our enemies but still somehow find a way to cause

cross on our enemies.

We love to see the violence, the never-abiding silence.

We love to hear the sirens, the dead bodies always crying.

We love to visit funerals and pass around the former gun like

kurnels because he got popped, burning candles because

Someone got dropped, a bloody sacrifice, even if that's not wh

they opt, but we love to see the dead, we love to see the blood

clot.

It’s a circus show, really. Private school kids are gangsters

completely. I'm scared of them private schools because they might

end me, I'm scared of them because they might condemn me.

That's not how things should be.

The devil walks the streets lonely, seeking just a single soul.

The lack of knowledge on the death you idolise so much is the

cause for all of these phonies.

They could never hold a blade or a bullet to me; instead of

crosses on enemies, I carry crosses more holy. Even if they

wanted to, they couldn't stop me, I see the truth that they don't

see.

Hell’s paradise is what we call the streets, and if you dont

understand, then listen more closely.

It's not cool to live death, it’s not cool when your future is

foretold.

It's your doom to be deaf; to repay your debt, your soul is sold.

Hell’s paradise is what we call the streets, and if you dont

understand, then listen more closely.

It's not cool to be defeated, it's not cool to have disagreements

It's not cool to be impeded, to be in a burning house while you're

seated.

Hell’s paradise is what we call the streets, and if you don't

understand, then listen more closely.