Bad question, bad answer
Bad anger management, bad high
I have nothing for schoolgirls, I vomit this world, bad digestion
On a fat sound, I raise the powder by the language of Molière
Wrong direction, I have their game between my molars
I have the pen in erection, and I know the air too well
On the sound I pierced it bursts the eyeball
I have a big head the crown doesn't suit me I wear it on the little finger
Commercial suicide, why round off when I can make it dirty?
My bullet goes through the net, you touch the crossbar
Mood breaker stuck between, Stromae and Gims
Metrosexual rap atmosphere, how do you hide a gun in leggings?
Textual obsessed, I spit in the soup I give everything
I won't be caught at the Enfoirés in heart dog, like John Q's son
Winner's face climbs violence without a ladder
In rap the word "Represent" died with the Bescherelle
It's dead and buried opinions diverge
In this biz I blew everything up I'm still waiting for my 70 virgins
Like Babylon I'm waiting for ruin
With a pack of monkeys that make Darwin a liar
Bat blow, you scream it pisses everywhere
I fuck everything I'm Stevie Wonder in an orgy
Decadence size, Apocalypse Now everywhere
Violence is a seller here I distribute the cards
And control the game like the Partouche
The cartridges, I don't count anymore, cruel world
Am I anti-Semitic if I vomit on Bruel's songs?
Seems I'm exaggerating, I'm competing with the gravedigger
I send three quarters of French production into the Sanibroyeur
It's just the beginning, I'm just starting my growth
I saw nothing heard nothing at the police station, I only use three senses
My blood sugar level rises at the end of the list, I come like a sneaky cancer
I'm not a Buddhist, I only take weapons on me

It goes through the airwaves all the addicts know that
Big hits per second the style is recognizable
My microphone, is right, outstanding rap of dirty mood
Season 2 episode 1, commercial suicide, commercial
Commercial suicide, commercial, commercial, commercial suicide
Sing my lesions, hit the censorship, it's my martial art
Why round off the angles, when I can make it dirty?

I won't lecture you, I'm as addicted as you if not more
On the prod' there won't be a Disney Plus ending
Out of hatred, I push, I set fire, to see more clearly
I'll piss on your graves and on Drucker's couch
It's shit and they say "Let's vote", the devil has a flair
The sanction is in the ballot boxes, if the real revolt was not to do it anymore
I treat rappers like on Ruquier's show,
They take us for drugged idiots
They do "yo yo" with the cap on the side
I'm not begging no, I spit my guts out, it's launched
I'm Kassovitz on Twitter, I fuck French rap
Dirty cooker, check that the kids are asleep
Freedom of speech, stops at the doors of the golden hand
This man takes 21 grams, (argh) I'd say at first sight
And if I burn I'll go to Hell to smoke crack with Whitney
All the same and if I can dispel your doubts
Sarkozy suffers when I sting Valls like a Voodoo doll
Without sweet words I trip, I celebrate the death of the disc under champagne
Back to lyrics, it's my campaign slogan
I hear "Bors' is dead, bors' doesn't talk to the little ones"
I piss on you without bothering to make you believe it's raining
I wake up Tupac, I do spiritism sessions
Automatic writing possessed by the demon of lyricism
Trash version of Juliette, and Romeo
Ärsenik takes Marianne in sandwich to disgust France of Oreos

It goes through the airwaves all the addicts know that
Big hits per second the style is recognizable
My microphone, is right, outstanding rap of dirty mood
Season 2 episode 1, commercial suicide, commercial
Commercial suicide, commercial, commercial, commercial suicide
Sing my lesions, hit the censorship, it's my martial art
Why round the corners, when I can make it dirty?

They talk about succession, I still handle the funerals
My last record was in 2005 I'm still not out of the Top 5
Chest out, let's kick, there's my seed in the serum
You know what counts, let these little jerks jerk off on the forums
On the drums I make my hole set fire without accelerator
I leave my genital prints, revealing slip
Blah blah, what do they say?
Nothing, I give caviar to pigs
Even with the keys to success, I break doors
Fuck their shows their talkshows, without remission the box opens
I put the sound and something else in this hole
Carnage for all, while you talk about gay marriage
They pass laws that fuck you, the word is dropped
I smell the sulfur of the rap press, amateurs and shitty questions
I crush the detonators, who like shitty sounds
Only fucked up actors that I bury, only good to please kids
You're just a Youtube gangster, even your gun looks gay
I spit everything out before the lights go out
While they put at the top silicone, hair extensions
Where are the icons?
Here I hit it's dry put away your gels
I rap like a headbutt in the final, a sketch at Fogiel's
Pass my sound I don't give a fuck, don't come scratching for respect
They play the macs, Bouneau's dick is a USB key
Raping rap leaves marks there's my DNA under her nails
On the BPM I rap about myself I'm out of season
Bors'! (Out of season)

It goes through the airwaves all the addicts know that
Big hits per second the style is recognizable
My microphone, is right, outstanding rap of dirty mood
Season 2 episode 1, commercial suicide.

CONSULTER LES PAROLES ORIGINALES