Trans Sapporo Express Lyrics

Trans Sapporo Express lyrics

TBH saga, mad mad drama, disembarking once again, the northern top
planner.
Pancrase champion class funcrusher, the back paceker bringing back
all the freshest material.
Rappers turning into harmless pop stars, still
the big fish in a pond of zines.
We see it through, we don't need your seat,
stinking rotten underground brand.
Overcoming the slump with zero stunts, the
new century replicant loading works with passion.
The remains from 'Thumpin'
have no chance for reissue, juniors aside, no one gets your instant
jungles.
Our mission operates beneath the surface, a revolutionist using
mics like a Beretta.
Battle quallity, propped against the countless obsessed
hit-makers, second to none.
Spirit photograph the succession of epemeral
speaks, like sketching the contour of airflows.
A chain letter from my
pen-"Endeavour", the so-called "scene" should be able to tap into this
one.
The press interviews fill up the schedule, leave definite impressions
with top notch metaphors
Suck in all self-conceit, running through, the
drum'n'voice TRANS SP EXPRESS.

Let the fair wind blow, let the audience
wait, a dirt way wrapped in dust.
The Rap game is no joke, let nobody
surpass us, even the folded arms' indifferent ears could not
shun
this.
Let the fair wind blow, let the audience wait, a hard way wrapped in
thick smock.
Let the disc spin indefinitely, border control can't even stop
these radio waves.

Rivals and clients, buyers, dealers, disseminators,
gamblers, upstarts and the fortunete, diamonds,
Street teams and women on
the street, think of us as your old friends and listen.
Once you start,
there's no stopping until you lose, a tournament, the fuse is sparked.
Steer
clear from yes-men and apathy, let the stone roll towards the break of
dawn.
Sneering at the mimics-on-parade, winnings all awards that start with
"the illest".
The light is green, straight on through industry
intersections, no one has enough guts to stop us.
Let me remind you, hip hop
doesn't appear through a TV tube, it's a culture of survival.
There exists
another top-liner, another Khun Sa reaching ove to Hunza and
Yungnan.
Brimming, words circulating, in a type of endorphin rumba
pulse.
The mother of creation is always the hunger, who do you think we are,
we are the Blue.
Orient based nouvelle vague, crank up and accelerate, the JP
EXPRESS.
About to run through your mind hell, kids and ladies getting choked
by slang.

Let the fair wind blow, let the audience wait, a dirt way
wrapped in dust.
The Rap game is no joke, let nobody surpass us, even the
folded arms' indifferent ears could not
shun this.
Let the fair wind
blow, let the audience wait, a hard way wrapped in thick smock.
Let the disc
spin indefinitely, border control can't even stop these radio waves.