Blindfolds on the eyes, Daredevil style
I've just been hanging out in the places of my Havre-City
I'm from the era of the Throneurs in the Bar 2000
And the disheartened faces beaten with a crowbar
So many dramas of u-re made us good playwrights
A few grams of pure, you fall asleep in the arms of Mother Nature
I'm losing my Latin, morning searches
You're losing ground, you need to get off one
I talk like a book, I'm not a writer
But I describe urban life in Alexandrines
Crossword solver, I crack the varnish
So much to say that I overflow the line
The pen is magic, party and magic
Brassens, Brel and Ferré is the album of The League
We have our own references
Yours, we grant ourselves
Your philosophy of France
My Socrates lives in the 93
My psychiatrist the Plan d'Aou
Since "the sound of the bandits", boy
Here, I don't read the newspaper anymore, except www.bondyblog
Enter the war room, guru's draw
I have the right speech, I'm like a doctor in Lourdes
The value of a heavy, a pearl in the clam
Our neighborhoods are gloomy in the pale light of day
I introduce minor art to the art market
When rap makes the noise of a dollar machine
We are all breakers, I throw marble cobblestones
Black Bloc, black tulip

Infrabasses in the sedan
When the street carries the liters
A grenade in the playlist
Pros of prose, we are the elite
Outrageous music, paper eaters, hooded preachers
Tonight, I'm alone on stage, I rap where I can't stand, I preach my convinced
Wesh, my convinced, are you coming to get excited?
At home the only bes-tu that make us dance have the sawed-off barrel
Argot music, priests of the landings, pastors of the accused
Tonight, I'm alone on stage, I rap where I can't stand, I preach my convinced

Rap, a slave sport
That carries hope
Of a forgotten youth
We do street art on the benches of History
Our apartment blocks are part of the furniture
One day, the Hexagon will remember that we are the noble part
A rapper who dies, a library that burns
I'm a member of a gang and a reading club
The language of the asphalt is not taciturn
Tattoos in ink, we tell the lived
No cheap works, it's not Rabelais
A ciste-ra poem, it's hard to remember
I'm not Republican, I'm Democrats D
Until she loves me, France, I'm going to demograph her
My draft, it's your Goncourt Prize
At the FNJ, I give language courses
We do sound and speeches
Like François Hollande's negro
Does it make you happy to hear my sad songs?
We live the torture under anesthesia
It won't make me more political
If I kick on Pierre Sarkozy's beats
Taste the playground, we live in a closed environment
The others are tricycles at the Auto Show
I've been given for dead since Mitterand's time
Become a young veteran in the pink pages of the dictionary
They own the music, we make it
People see my lyrics in the underworld
My Arghouns demomify Louis Aragon
It's black punk, Protest Song

Infrabasses in the sedan
When the street carries the liters
A grenade in the playlist
Pros of prose, we are the elite
Outrageous music, paper eaters, hooded preachers
Tonight, I'm alone on stage, I rap where I can't stand, I preach my convinced
Wesh, my convinced, are you coming to get excited?
At home the only bes-tu that make us dance have the sawed-off barrel
Argot music, priests of the landings, pastors of the accused
Tonight, I'm alone on stage, I rap where I can't stand, I preach my convinced

Elite prose
Dude, the mass is said
Without patronage, nor record company
Din Records, Médine
Lyricist of the parlors
Armored door and wide bars
The exit, it's not for there
As long as we don't have the spokesperson
7.6

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