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Stroke of the Stratosphere
Hip hop track to make your head nod
HipHop - Old School
Charts #3,923 today (peak #320)
Charts #115 in subgenre today (peak #10)
Shaun Friedman
March 15, 2017
MP3 5.0 MB
160 kbps bitrate
4:20 minutes
Intruder on the beat no that’s a shooter on his feet Mr. Shaun Fried no Lex Lugar on the beat A super saranova Menacing like Black Cobra We need experience before the veterans can show up The microphone it grabs me in, with the alloy metal tip Row your boat down the stream or you could tryda paddle it The stratosphere might seem a little bit queer With the way my atmosphere bubbles up my wit beer He’s a mover on his feet, never “pooped” too soon Hoop dreams to succeed is when you lift off to the moon I cut up on the micro, blown and all that Mr Psycho cyclone, ready for combat Written thru night storms produces poems from my mind There’s no telling what I’ll might find, And at the right time It all makes sense, and that’s a precious moment Of the present omen, When everyone’s presence is so open Lyrical scepter, receptor of transmission Feel my frequency get in tune the image Elude new suspicions, suspend your belief See I’ve been magnetized and always get pulled back to the beat The completion of a sacred secretion Entertaining deletion with every second that passes by Don’t ask why just accept no control no regrets Asshole ask a square then prepare to connect Cuttin[Chasing] the rarest bet, I swear on intuition Always trust your gut or end up crushed by your decisions The incision helps to open up, chose a prose scalpel Slicing through the paper like you saw a sword do apple First we were a tadpool part of a school of semen Now I’m, trapped in the rat hole, man these cats are scheming Back to the worm hole instead You can catch my lift off in Cleveland this evening, Friends The stratosphere’s accolades captivate my mind Imagination Blind And then I’m facing time I creep from behind In the finite inner bind I’m reachin for my prime And seein what’s really mine Until I’m honestly dead, the creative spark should never go dark [March] When I’m stuck in a pickled riddle better rip it apart [Arc] Hit my mark, the center of my focus Could never be prevented, the pure mention of it’s bogus [hocus] So I swayed toward, known tactics Down Niagra in a barrel backwards [still intact] Stuck in cave in a terror blackness [trapped] Reach for the sky with the Pterodactylus Don’t ya dare turn ya back on us Mix it with the kick and snare wit a nasty punch Lunge onwards, never squander Fuck imposters, theory quantum It’s my turn you rotten scoundrels