Yes-oh, uh [Part]
Yes, I rap from Kalaschnikow, white Beyda, cannabis, Ot
While your ass is being chased in Berlin by Arabidos
With bullet magazine, box full, me load the AK now hot
I was with you back when your sick father died
Nobody was there that day, your character is wrong
Where were your friends, cunt, when your karma hit you?
Your dead father carried Arafat into the grave with you
He, the only one, and you give him the treason as a thank you
Selling your brother and now hanging out with Saad El-Haddad
And Animus, he ‘ll unpack immediately if the prosecutor asks
Your children all have Arabic names
But your wife gets paid in Club Bacardis (Uh)
That will be your Armageddon, now Saad is your Eko
You fuck the lungs of your fans with your tobacco stretching
Your hype is long gone, back then you were ghetto
even them Siri says “you V-man” with the speech recognition
Because you pisser sticks to cops like Patafix
Make tunese, but you can not even speak Arabic.
Get a few grams of cannabis for your Kahba Selling
your religion, you Satanist
This Sharmuta shows the erogenous zones
At most you still have the throne of your WoW
Addiction to Mesut Özil course, in a crisis she asks for cash
Your wife is dishonorable, always partying on the nose
Panic attacks now because the Arabs are chasing you
What for September 11th? I am Osama, you Charlie
that time AMG, now transport only vehicle antennas
for the hooker you read you even the asshole brighten
Are on love, but you both unfaithful, you schwängerst Jaspina
Meanwhile sucks the Kahba more than one Benzer gasoline
You are the babysitter, because the whore is outside on Saturday
You want to see her sextape? Asahbi, asks Arnautovic.
Little policeman is sitting well while eating donuts.
With the wife and your children and the superintendent.
Want to dissolve in your part, because you’re slowly losing your mind
24/7 only at home in front of the flat screen
I live my life, make bills every day
here and there and meanwhile you swing brooms
The woman half-naked at parties, posing like little girls
This year your worst day,
not relegation from Bremen The 06.07. is now one of your days of mourning
At least COVID fucks your Kahba her season ticket
You are already clinically dead after a firm punch
You were fucked by the Libero, but you were not her last man
The hooker swallows more than my sports car
tank Meanwhile, you speak to officials by first name
At that time MTV and VIVA, today on antidepressants
You hear about party sex with players, fuck Picaldi, I wear ‘Dsquared
Rauch’ with Ali a shisha, I want lemon chill on pineapple
Baba Saad, show us Ot, get your Anna wet.
You act on godfather, tell me, who do you want to threaten, pisser?
Behind me the street, behind you there are only bodyguards
Better to be respected and loved on the street Than
not even to go outside the door alone for a Tonno pizza
You are a cup without charisma, I pour the petrol can
chase you , you mutt, fuck your troop, because I am the revenge from the mountains of Afghanistan
I speak for Ali, Arafat, for Flizzy, Capi, Samra, Laas
Fick Animus and Baba Saad, what do you rap me about pineapples?
Didn’t you find anything you’re going to take against me
Pico, I’m the one who threatens your life
Tits made of silicone, she’s the moth, not the butterfly
And wonder why I come and bring you your vendetta
No samurai, you the slave who cleans the blade
Even the sunbed flavor doesn’t keep you forever young,
times change I hang out with Mocros and Gs
Outside there was shooting, but you were just playing Warcraft.
Brothers caught bullets, not because it’s about income,
but about your honor and you’re alone,
but you don’t even go to visit with you ‘m AMG
To the brother concerned for the support and missing
While Ali is even going into solitary confinement for you Do you
say you were forced to pray on Friday
Little hypocrite, every day you sit and google the net
looking for beef and wonder who you now call “son of a bitch”
Puto! You are a fake, your whole life and the street
film Must feature rappers who are already buried in Germany
At home, is the studio or Artemis?
The old hooker rolls the joints for the visit in daylight
No, nothing is a lie, you know
the hooker wants a flap for drugs and hype
Every night a party with an open dress
You lie on the floor and cry
your whole image, your tattoo is from Booba
me come by with Chechens, they are shooting in the middle of Ku’damm
With a hail of bullets, Habibi, you will pay, famidi
With you on street eight Zivis, with me for years Nasiris
And my soles no Louboutin, I run like Kanye on Yeezys
The first German dead rapper, his name is—
Who took you on back then, you dog, from the Aggro Berlin contract?
You had nothing, you begged, when did you deal with Narco?
You were only a painter-varnisher , never the dealer on the street.
Pray for Yaum-al-Qiyama that your father forgave you
Were too greedy, didn’t want to pay the Hajj to Makka-Madina
For your father, yours Millionaire makes a blatant Berliner
You let him sleep next to the Al-Nur mosque and live in a villa
The old man was broken, lived alone in a room
For you the track turns into a drama, at that time every text about mom.
Your mother’s last travel destination, did you know that it was USA?
Ya kelb, tell me why didn’t you go with her back then?
You’d rather fly with the Kahba to the Maldives with lubricant
To Costa Rica, Singapore, Australia, Kenya and Taipei
Arafat flies with her into the country so that she will never suffer again
To Florida, Miami Beach, your wife is not an angel
She is on coca lines , Hennessy, the only
thing missing is that you get the bells. You get snapped like Kennedy, no blue light can help.
Then you go to sleep like your partner against Manuellsen
He opens chest, Deca, always on muscle carrier
But komm’n the boys at his door, the dog becomes a sleeper
you conceded rather Would rather play dead you there
now bounce balls at you from the AK-47
Are on Gorilla, But then you get rigid like the pantomimes
The new sofa tester from the furniture store, Mann Mobilia
The fat egg skull is now taking his place with the towel on the mic
You blank cartridge has collected bells from Abu Azaitar
Animus is a Fugazi, makes waves like a tsunami
I’m in the Lambo, Bugatti, cash
at its finest, nouga piece You play Socrates on the mic, but the Judas court speaks. Are you
afraid that a blood bath will soon take place, career over, khoda hafez
The children hate you, I just bring the rhymes, Brother
Baba Saad I don’t diss, he’s already
eating the white powder I’m the white 2Pac, you’re Germany’s 6ix9ine
Called Kay One a traitor, but you’re the same
It’s not one Beef between me and thee, which remains in Diss
storms the Mall of Berlin and you eat lead
I ‘do not do it for fame, no, for brothers, you betrayed
for all those who now steh’n because of you rat under suspicion
for The street hip-hop that you poisoned cunt for years
For the values of a rapper that I have long since destroyed ‘(Ya kelb)
For Arafat, through which you got out of your contracts
And no one on the street ever gave you a beat here
For your father, who was always shameful for you.
For your mother, who warned you about her every day.
For your daughter, whom you can tell later.
Her mother had every cock