Snow Beach

(álbum: Masters Of The Dark Arts - 2012)

People sometimes don't care, they don't
They, they're so busy with themselves
They're so busy growing, so busy trying to be something
And they forget, until something tragic happens in their lives
Until they lose somebody or they lose something in their life
They say, "why didn't I do the right thing?
Why didn't I say what I always wanted to say?"
I'm trying to say it now while I am alive

I was taught to die with my boots on my enemy's throat
Not slumped over in my wife's lap like Kennedy's dome
But you don't get to choose death unless your serenity's broke
Loss of suicidal hanging from your sanity's rope
So we live, like the shadow of death is upon us to the fullest
Fuck with us, you'll go from full of shit to full of bullets
We the masters of the darkest of arts
In the shroud of the shadow till the hellfire is sparked
The revolution will be classified
This song is programmed to self-destruct
See you in the afterlife
See you in the promised land of milk and honey
Where we kill for money
Where every $100 bill is stained with guilt and bloody
Where every single truth is tainted by lies
Where every pistol shoot hatred like the blaze in the sky
Composed like a symphony, orchestrating the crimes
Spraying the nine, explode instantly, taking what's mine

La Coka Nostra fleece, exclusive like Snow Beach
Shooters with chrome heat, 40-Belows and gold teeth
Rather turn in my grave than turn into a slave
Committing murders in a haze
Empty these burners in your face, homie

Coka Soldier fatigues, exclusive like Snow Beach
Shooters with chrome heat, 40-Belows and gold teeth
Fillets of black, spilling militant rap, buck 'em
Have 'em kicking the bucket like a Gilligan hat

Polo loco on my torso, know no one before me
Stutter Step 6, stumbling with a stogie
I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi and a Ralph Lauren Snow Beach
Monogamous mostly, condom glowing
Eighty-eight, Daisy Age, pot holes
Grumpy cut, low scarf, fly lows
Chronologic objects, gossip with the goblins
Cottage where the God is, gunning by the garbage
Knowledge is infinite, militant, dividends
Different, wear slippers by Michelin
Groups in they group, minute-made soup
This ain't my debut, niggas ain't new
La Coka Nostra, gorra cola conga
All my nieces look like Dora Dora
Double L general, thirsty Puerto Rican
No mercy worth me, knock your fucking teeth in

La Coka Nostra fleece, exclusive like Snow Beach
Shooters with chrome heat, 40-Belows and gold teeth
Rather turn in my grave than turn into a slave
Committing murders in a haze
Empty these burners in your face, homie

Coka Soldier fatigues, exclusive like Snow Beach
Shooters with chrome heat, 40-Belows and gold teeth
Fillets of black, spilling militant rap, buck 'em
Have 'em kicking the bucket like a Gilligan hat

I rock the Polo hoodie while I lay tracks with Marco
Lay sacks till my fingertips darker than choco
Used to hang around Puerto-Rocks calling me Flacko
Saying, "Uno ocho siete" on an undercover narco
Early on it was apparent I was off to a wack start
Born with yellow teeth, red eyes, and a black heart
But things changed, homie, now I got a black card
American Express, pushing heroin for less
Packing metal in this bitch, I'm the Devil in the flesh
Yeah, my attitude, it stinks, but I've never been as fresh
I'm the bad guy that they ain't got the evidence to get
The dollar's in the toilet and the president is dead
Said the world ain't got no skies, look at Heaven, is it red?
Triple sixes follow me, I'm banging sevens in my bed
I'm a Christian, listen to me, hang a reverend by his head
Dangled by his neck, tangled in my fucking spider web
I'm an alpha male, put a gun in the mouth of men
Up inside the Polo ranch and knocking off a Ralph Lauren
I'm a low life, left my old life, the green white with a gold stripe
Old type with the OE, I'm a OG that you don't like

La Coka Nostra fleece, exclusive like Snow Beach
Shooters with chrome heat, 40-Belows and gold teeth
Rather turn in my grave than turn into a slave
Committing murders in a haze
Empty these burners in your face, homie

Coka Soldier fatigues, exclusive like Snow Beach
Shooters with chrome heat, 40-Belows and gold teeth
Fillets of black, spilling militant rap, buck 'em
Have 'em kicking the bucket like a Gilligan hat