Byellville

Jack Parow back for another fokken piss take Keep your eyes open of jy mag my fokken mis kyk Take your baby for a chips en fokken vis date Blow up the jol like I'm made for bloody buskruit Almal is like, fokkit Parow is just great Bitches are so slick you could swear its fokken mince mate Die fokken woorde van die straathoek renegade so high energy I piss fokken Energade I'm here to rap, not to make fokkin movies I'm so next level my fokkin groupies have groupies So what you gonna do when jou moeder fokkin boat sails All these rappers hanging on Jack Parow's coat tails I'm buying energy with my piggy bank cent I moved back to my mom cos i can't pay my rent Playing real life risk, conquering country for country one for one untill the next on wants me Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit Uh, laat jou bouder skud Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit Uh, fokkin holy shit Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit Uh, laat jou bouder skud Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit Uh, fokkin holy shit Yo kry you moeder fokker round 2, fight, ek's wound too tight I'm fokken bound to bite Shit sounds just right spoeg kak kak tight, so luister mooi en fokkin walk towards the white light Die rapper uit die bosse lanks die N1 highway almal fokkin like my nou dat ek die mic kry By the way, there's nowhere to hide away Ek spoeg fokkin yster jou kak klink fokken naai 'kay Om long vir long en lom dom poms, pom om en om met vok om soms Fok wies die jong fokkin nuus vol gom, so pop that fokkin CD in jou CDROM uh (Yo) Ek's fokkin fly like Batman rap so siek moet heeltyd gaan vir 'n CAT scan Quick, vinnig, hardloop to the Jack Van rap so tight you could swear I was a black man Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit Uh, laat jou bouder skud Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit Uh, fokkin holy shit Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit Uh, laat jou bouder skud Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit Uh, fokkin holy shit Check, I fokkin grew up in 'n kak plek raised on pap en WWF Called kak kommen en kak zef, kak by jou kak, hos fokkof jy's kak drek Change in my pocket, head full a jokes So Sundays took my girl to the Spur vir 'n Coke Float No money for a car, sy moes op my fiets chill No money for steak or cheese in our Schnitzels What's that called, I think cordon bleu we roll corduroy pants en gelled up hair Stone cold shirts and orange bomber jackets, tape Walkmans en Pick 'n Pay packets I come from a town where no one's fokkin from a little bit of money and poof then they're gone But I'm Byelville bru, see why till I die so come down to Byellville en fokkin see why Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit Uh, laat jou bouder skud Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit Uh, fokkin holy shit Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit Uh, laat jou bouder skud Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit Uh, fokkin holy shit