行走的金子 (feat. 艾福杰尼/谟西Mercy)

AThree:

I want to see the uygga smiling with their heads held high.

Please laugh louder, uygga.

Let’s do what they never expected—that’s the power.

I seized the opportunity and raised my value—curse me if you want.

How much do you make in an hour?

My uygga.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not that I’ve become arrogant.

I just need to let these fools see how I pay.

Even if my heart goes numb, I still protect what should be protected.

Look at West Side’s UG-signed Fu Qi—“He’s got a Buddha hanging from his neck!!”

**** everybody—the most important thing is “what u want.”

Anyway, eighty years from now we’ll all turn to soil.

Life is like a chump; Mr. Time has a gun.

And death is chasing man—run, mother****er, run.

You’ve got to control love—its function is like lymph.

Too little is pitiful, but too much will cost you your life.

The past few years were ****ed up—when we got sick.

Now we’re better than ever—walking gold.

Efujieni:

OK.

Let me guess.

What’s your price?

Cash? Cash?

Transfer, or…

Pay in installments, bro—benchmark it to the gas price.

I don’t deliberately dress sharp in a suit.

“Journey” is my pen name.

My ink catches eyes (gold)—and I accept criticism.

Life is improvised—but leave the liquor here.

Drinking issues—drunken boxing technique.

“Pelican” pouring over the head; I’m battered all over—barter goods for goods, sorry.

My head’s under my ass.

Read it the right way and you’ll get it without a teacher—“pelican enlightenment,” half-dream, half-awake.

Keep it 100—on the mountaintop I see clearly; pause the worrying.

OK—1, 2, 3.

That’s my hourly rate.

Life’s tearing you apart—I’m just taking a shower.

Do business with me—barter for barter; you’d better have the Eiffel Tower.

My flow—you’ll never get it.

But DON’T be a ****in coward.

You think I’m drunk? I’m faking it—don’t let your brain get exposed.

Hold your nerve, chamber a round, hide it well—look, you’ve already fired off all your bullets.

How can the lead get hurt before he even walks on stage?

Everyone knows to keep it hidden—when the glitz fades, brother, where’s your gun?

Moxi Mercy:

Go listen to those trash songs—friend, how did you fall for it again?

This broken scene is like a pyramid scheme—why don’t you turn around, quick?

If the punchlines don’t punch, how’s your wallet supposed to get fat?

Hip-hop got sent six feet under—that’s why it’s called underground.

Just saying, boy.

Whether they’re bootlegging Japan/Korea or Europe/America, boy…

We’re still holding on, so I say: don’t worry, boy.

Mercy is a kind of power—they don’t have it, so they love writing “no mercy,” boy.

Consumerism weaves the emperor’s new clothes.

Gold watches, gold chains, gold teeth—gold d***, gold B.

Fame and profit are the best aphrodisiac, releasing rotten signals.

Birds of a feather flock together—why waste the scheming, my brother?

If stupidity is the breeding ground where hatred grows…

Then why do clear-headed people always seem so unusual? OK.

Do we really have to wait until it’s life-or-death…

To realize we’re actually counting on a bunch of illiterates?

Kid Cudi talk.

AThree:

Players compete in skills; models compete in curves.

Rappers can compete in anything—except music.

He can go low-class, or he can get greasy.

Why do we do everything except good music?

Players compete in skills; models compete in curves.

Rappers can compete in anything—except music.

He can go low-class, or he can get greasy.

Why do we do everything except good music?

Recording studio: FUQI CENTURY.

Recording: ODE / AThree.

Coca-Cola.

Coca-Cola.