Corrección Letra Paper Mache (Radio) par Apathy

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Letra

Yeah, everybody get up like I said. Rick Smooth, what up? (Everybody in the front, get up! What up?!?) Tah Shamel. Yo, it’s Maylay Sparks, 2001

In the silhouette, standing erect
Tower projects, insects cling to the steps
Oral sex, my head blessed, Backwoods
Steamed in conquest, the cello rest against my chest
Stroke the songstress in unison, yeah, it’s our heart
Feeling support on my dolos, V cut the bottle
Siento portal, my journal read and spoken external
Through mass verbal, my herbal habit Magic, Puff
Dragon and purple, my inner circle violate it
Suckers annihilated, shroom, we’re playing MF Doom
Plum skins, I’ma fondle ‘em. Ten more stamps
That ain’t no problem, laser light, power sublime
Sound leaking through the Terrordome, big gold chains
And herringbones from Yellowstone, parties on the rocks
In Arizon’ to Stonehenge (Rocked ill fests)
(From London to Sweden) And London’s fans? They X-ed out. Long binge
Pour me the next stout, bounced all the wack emcees out

They can’t win
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)
n***as soft, can’t come off, it’s embarrassing
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)
I said, “Mash out, smash mouth, go in they glass chin”
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)
I do this often, Philly to Boston, Rah’ blends
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)

In full effect, records get wrecked, Percocets
Hennessey fifth, chase it with Becks
Fleeing suspect: Maylay. Controversy
The Bill of Rights entice the most forbidden of privileges
Rolling dice, I melt ice, draw the stars
Rinse the earth of negativity, blew out the torch
On Lady Liberty, quill pens, ink dispense
Confederated to true heads, Asian and
The African kids, whites with dreads, and fluent Orientals
Love instrumentals and label-lick, slip in abyss
Slipping a disk

Slip ‘em a hit of this
Strychnine-laced-up ridiculousness and watch ‘em trip
Like they slipped on a slick patch of oil
And dispatched the royal blue boys to chase
‘Cause when the poison takes effect, they’ll destroy this place
Enjoy the taste of avoiding space and time with your tongue depressed
Flat on a white acid tab like Hunter S
Then become depressed ‘cause you wish you’re the guy that’s rhyming
Nonetheless, it’s Louis in the sky with diamonds (Louis in the sky with diamonds!)
Going “Bling, bling!“ ‘cause if the cops had an inkling
Of the Mickeys I slipped kids, I’d be thrown in Sing Sing
I’m talking more Mickeys than a whore’s hickeys
Or, even worse, I’ve served more Mickeys than Walt Disney (Say what?!?)
You didn’t hear me? My verses make your vertebrae
Curve away from trips like I’m the new Tim Leary

We bounced all the wack emcees out, they can’t win
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)
n***as soft, can’t come off, it’s embarrassing
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)
I said, “Mash out, smash mouth, go in they glass chin”
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)
I do this often, Philly to Boston, Rah’ blends
(“What you say to me is just paper-thin”)

I’m envisioned as
A microphone Samaritan ‘cause n***as say I rhyme nice
Challenge you to battle and take you out like pork fried rice
Motherf**kers ain’t ready for the Celph Titled onslaught
Try to embrace the flow and then a pack’ll rip your arms off
My beats are classic like novels by Charles d**kens
Bury your body in cement blocks and watch the plot thicken
My frame of mind is on exhibit at museums
And my show is in the Guinness book for filling up coliseums
I play b*t*hes like radio stations and straight FM / F ‘em
A Super Mario n***a that lay pipe without discretion
I’m I’ll, barbeque your ice up on the grill
Make you relocate to farmlands with cows and windmills
(Ayyo, Celph, this ain’t a battle. I think you’re hallucinating)
I see no evil, inflict blindness in the eyes of Satan
Blurry vision, but still a marksman who straight spray darts
The emcee on stage seen in the mind of Maylay Sparks

Blood-breather, rip open your chest, take a breath
Fill the lungs with red sess. When getting high, I smoke death and meet
The Grim Reaper for reefer, nickel-bag full of souls
Secrete a poison, toxic chronic, put the beast in a sleeper hold
My hellfire is cold, I be bold, writing my soul
I never sold, I broke the mold like Christ’s bread was old
Behold: my coming’s foretold, take off your mind blindfold
‘Cause I’m so fly, the Fifty-First Area stole my steelo
I be low like Satan’s basement. Behold the Pale Horse
I snuffed the Grim Reaper, so guess who’s the replacement?
I wait ‘til dark, stalk while you walk through parks
Until the Son of Sam’s dog barks at Maylay Sparks

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