新疆Cypher

Yang Bulade:

That’s fact, man—I am that man. Come at me and it’s 5–0 (I’m the chosen one; that’s undeniable).

Nobody wants to walk with me, because I’m walking a dark road.

I’ve basically built my respect in CN; next step is Asia.

If reaching the top is “Tuesday,” then I’m “Taco.”

See ya tomorrow, you bunch of clowns (see you tomorrow).

One by one you’re trash—don’t drag the bar any lower.

Look at the crap you’ve done—I don’t even want to talk about you.

But you make me go even harder—yeah man, we gotta have a drink.

Me and Three in Shanghai, talking about our old internal beef.

We can be the center whenever we want—whether we chose it or it chose us.

We turned all their sarcasm and mockery into fees.

Now the gold on my neck is so heavy it makes my back ache.

Shyt—I know you won’t forget.

All my brada (my brothers) are really dripped out—so dripped out I want to show out.

Other people want to find the password, but they don’t even have an account.

The next decade in the West will be created by us.

Ay Yu! Sallgood don’t sendis sh2dem.

Klat:

Western China underground (western underground rap).

Act first, then plan.

Take seven million and hop on a private jet.

To the top from the bottom—my brat (the ones standing on top are my street brothers).

Pop—pirra-tattirra—like a machine gun, tat-tat (biu-biu).

Everyone else besides me is useless.

u****ige ba u****ige bama dep (every wanderer’s road home has someone waiting for them).

Otherwise you’ll be doing flips and banging the drum kit for me to watch.

Our score still isn’t settled.

Yiltiz Iskilat (label name).

Western China underground (western underground rap).

Where there’s rap, there’s power, there are plans.

I’m the man—say my name, call me Klat.

Where you from, bro? I’m from outer space.

I opened my eyes—beneath me a magnificent flying carpet carried me into a brand-new world.

In the white desert, a snake opens its deep eyes.

All day, all day—underground shit (day and night it’s all rap on my mind).

Yeah, I’m the underground king.

AThree:

Ready?

The boys are ready—let’s start. Okay, cool.

Put this song in your dad’s era and it’d still be a huge hit.

Even tasteful rich ladies love it—like a more masculine version of “Yar Qaydu.”

You’ll ask, “Rap or a cold?” because it’s spreading everywhere.

OHHHOOOO.

I won’t just break this scene—I’ll tear it to pieces.

Rap’s spine is broken—I won’t throw it away; I’ll drink its marrow.

Chicken? mutton? beef? I know good meat when I taste it.

Kebab-flavored rap? Bro, watch it—the skewer doesn’t care where it lands.

Nachiwofu:

Pulling out the skewer stuck in the eye with my own hands.

The smoke of pop music—I lit it; the ash—I flicked it.

This wildfire-spreading flow is like a Zippo—I’m gonna ignite this carnival.

I’m a Mille owner, a millionaire (close with Richard—Richard Mille).

I’ll smash your fragile Patek Philippe (PP) ring.

If Three is tearing it up, I’ll back him—smash it down to ash.

If you can’t stand us living too well, then you’ll have to swallow the anger in your heart.

I’m the opp (imagined enemy) you fantasize about in your songs.

You gotta shut up (watch your mouth).

Don’t play with us—you don’t belong in our team.

If you overreach, you’ll be picking your teeth up off the ground.

Insecure rappers keep cooking fake numbers—facts, bro.

This is just the first step of going international—next up: bonjour, guten tag.

We’ve been running drill for a year.

Listen around—it’s all copies of Yu’s type shyt (the template).

Send a clip to K-shao: find a new Balenci (found some new kicks).

Want me to grab some on the way?

Mixing Uyghur and Chinese in lyrics lives in my shadow, because that’s my shyt—I’m the one who made that style hot.

If I give you face, you’d better take it, kids—Wolf bro warns you: this is only the beginning.

Where this wild growth passes, not a blade of grass survives.

Platinum VIP—rich with a dark belly.

Don’t talk about regretting rap, man.

Former opponents now straight-up regret being born.

Notoriety drifted from the New World all the way to the old city.

Even on your turf there are billions of voices cheering.

Eat your own stew—I want far more than that.

What I want is a 51% stake in this pie.

kkluv:

AL PAKINO 6.

Girls put on short skirts.

Shake, shake it—party hard.

“ALPAKINO—who are you, really?!”

However you think of me—that’s exactly who I am.

We just tweaked the game’s parameters.

Blow out all my shadow-clone rappers.

WG type shyt—tear up your blueprint.

Let’s play—jump up.

Let your body go—release your passion and rave.

Don’t tug at my collar by accident.

Yeah-yeah-yeah—this is Louis Vuitton.

So be careful.

Party hard.

However many cyphers there are, I’ll tear it up that many times.

A 3,000-person venue—UMBROSKII holds it down himself.

I bite white naan and dip it in your red-eye.

CHINA POWER—wild wild west side (China’s power, number one in the world).

BROSKIK少 still has to keep going.

LADYS CALL ME **EDC (babes call me **Edison Chen).

Wherever I am, they won’t mention you.

Because I’m

AL PAKINO 6.

Girls put on short skirts.

Shake, shake it—party hard.

“ALPAKINO—what kind of person are you?!”

However you think of me—that’s who I am.

We just tweaked the game’s parameters.

Blow out all my shadow-clone rappers.

WG type shyt—tear up your blueprint.

SAM:

The passion in my blood can’t be held back.

Sorry, bro—the guys in front of you are handsome and sharp.

Linking rap across the country like building high-speed rail.

We’re the modern-day bay (the rich bosses).

Even your whole family’s hustle can’t compare to my direction—Fei Duo.

Immersive money-making—money, money, money all over the world.

Rap’s already seasoned—your day-count wordplay is small business to us.

Your Douyin performances are my bedtime punchlines.

The bullsh you put out is dessert for your fans.

As for this thing called rap—I advise you to give it up.

Listen to ** and go home to study for grad school.

Listen up, little bro.

Not only **—I’m the most hard-hitting director in Chinese rap.

Seven cards—tap tap, swipe swipe.

Stir, stir—firima (milk-tea powder).

Mouth corners up like piqina (a little biscuit).

Feet up—kiqida (late at night).

Nurshat’s got a big temper.

My reputation’s out there—tixida (outside).

Big enterprise; a big rap system.

Do real work—don’t talk crap.

The organizers beg us: don’t leave.

We’re as hot as red wine.

We’re clean, sharp, and full of spirit.

You’re greasy like a latex condom.

Your “hot” isn’t really hot.

We’re the rap unicorn.

Dear—sorry about that.

This cypher doesn’t include free shipping.

ZENJIR:

Who can control their own desires?

In the future, you will surely earn a measure of renown.

I’ve always lived with a clear conscience.

So act without greed—don’t be too grasping in life or work.

If you earn respect from elders, it’s tremendous support.

Then things will go smoothly in your favor.

Don’t stand still copying the mediocre.

Know yourself—and consciously stay away from Gangsamosa.

The unity we worked hard to build,

there are always ill-intentioned people trying to tear it down,

and your so-called fairness is nothing but passing smoke.

In wrongdoing, can you face your own innocent childhood?

Take in these heavy raps—my rap is advice for you,

and these admonitions can bring you strength.

Build noble collectives—form ranks of honor.

Be a diamond—don’t be a cracked, rotten shard; without the collective you’ll drift.

Let go of grudges—resolve the contradictions in your heart.

But choose the right ground and direction—the right stance and path.

Don’t go picking fights with the self-righteous.

If you get too close, they’ll throw you into the abyss.

Your few words are like drifting mist.

Between your lines, shallow childishness still shows.

Watch out—one day, Zenjir

will tighten like a chain around your throat.

MURAT KING:

The feast begins.

Dance the meshrep.

At my homeland’s banquet: songs and dances, with fine food in the air.

The desert is full of my footprints; an eagle stands proud on my shoulder.

Men have long roads to travel.

What you’re hearing isn’t just a cypher—it’s a whirlwind rising from the desert.

We’re all celebrating at the center of the stage.

Anyone who can’t stand us can only peek from below.

Back home they call me Murat-King; with Wolf Gang, we’re family.

My songs are like mighty wild bulls, giving you endless strength.

People with opinions don’t even dare make a sound.

Don’t tell me some old man from nowhere dares go 1-on-1.

In rap you’ve gotta know respect; he said, “If I win, don’t forget to call and congratulate me.”

The kid from home is out on the road, but he’s still got backing behind him.

In the brothers’ blood, rap genes run deep.

Don’t feed me nonsense—I’m busy like Biggie.

My life may be ordinary, but my inspiration lights up the dark.

This is a clip from Murat Rap.

My songs hit harder than yours.

Put the whiskey and champagne aside,

our own musallas tastes better.

My inspiration flows like a stream—it’s brought me a huge change.

With a gifted tongue, I’ve reaped rich returns.

Inspiration surges like a river—my lines bloom.

When you run into me, I can light your road.

In many people’s eyes, I’m already an old OG.

Back then, SIX-CITY was hip-hop’s medicine.

Ay, yo! Sallgood—don’t send this sh2t.

Text proofreading: Mayira

Ghetto Club