What would it take for my actions to be glorified when foreign spies implies that i´m the sort of guy, born to die for the pride and endless struggle of despise, and the broken kind on contract for the persuasive organization that told us lies, and shrinkled our poor minds. You got your identity, and I stole mine. I infiltrate a to us well known enemy through fictive names and a forged fucking pedigree. They´re stationed over nations within neo-nazi formations and gratefully taking whatever penny we´re making and it takes crates full of patience to even begin mistaken. I'm shrinking sanity in canisters the second i break it. We undercover to rattle their cage sort of speak. We release free coded spoken word over beats. Nazi skinheads, common inbreads, you claimed to have suffered, but so did we. I'm a fucking walking financial-crisis, yes I am, I come in multible disguises. I stomp on the back of youre head if you're not listening and knock your teeth out like when Meg Griffin got out of prison. We the kind of hiphop-collective that meets at the farmers market for bullshit talking, lot´s of brawling with kids in gauntlets. With celtic punkrock drinking Belgian beers, stuffing stockings in pockets, raising hell over here. You think you're thugged-out, ninja, you aint. Tattoes aint gangsta, thay just scars filled with paint. I walk these streets by myself and no security, while filthy motherfuckers come and claim purity. How much longer must I wait until karma gets these people, cause I'm loosing my patience seeing loosers and fakeness. I don't understand the question or the face you made when you asked it. Neither why you bled so much when I smacked you for asking it.
