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Don't Matter
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Shadowville Productions on the beat!
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Hip-hop, Underground, Wordplay, Puns, Multies, Metaz, Deep, Emotional
Whats good! I'm 16, and have been writing ever since I could hold a pen. The name is Polska, a.k.a Art-A-Fact because I spit to make Art A Fact with tracks that'll become artifacts. Trying to wipe out the cess pit of bullshit that is mainstream rap, and make indie/underground known. Look out for the Ars Gratia Artis mixtape, comin soon!
Song Info
Genre
Hip-Hop • Alternative Hip Hop
Charts
Peak #797
Peak in subgenre #67
Author
Art A Fact
Uploaded
February 23, 2008
Track Files
MP3
MP3 3.7 MB • 128 kbps • 4:02
Story behind the song
Wanted to write a verse in Polish, bridge my two cultures into one song.
Lyrics
Ten sposob co ja tworze wersy, nie ma lepszego Muzyka jest moim zyciem, nie ma nic innego Ja mam dlugopisy zamiast rak, I tusz zamiast krwi I jak zamykam oczy to mikrofony snia sie mi Czy po angielsku czy po polsku, nie ma znaczenia Jezyk jest nie wazny bo ja mam cos do powiedzenia Jak ja mysle to rymuje, tak mam od urodzenia I jak piosenki pisze, to wychodza od niechcenia Ja pisze caly dzien, I nagrywam cala noc Ja stoje nad przepascia, I glos w glowie krzyczy skocz Wkladam dusze w te piosenki i one zyja we mnie Dlatego ja sie czuje w domu jak na scenie Tak jak Pudzianowski moje slowa sa mocne I tak jak winnice moj wysilek jest owocny Ja robie te poisenki ostrosznie tak jak kot sie moszczi I Jestem pelni mondroschi tak jak leszcz pelni oszczi And it just goes to show that the language don't matter I still spit sharp like a glass that just shattered Innich jezykow, ja znam kilku Ale w kazdym moje linie som ostre tak jak zeby wilkuw You wanna step up to me? Well you better get a ladder then I bring “news to the game” kinda like E.S.P.N I’m so high above you’re level, you could say I hover So “Czech mate”, like a Slovakian lover I spit hot bars, like burning saloons I have seasonal “wins”, something like monsoons But it’s more then that, I spit metaz like crazy You “mist” your punches until your shit seems hazy You don’t come close, not even a little You’re just “colorful”, like a bag of skittles If you had OCD, you still wouldn’t be consistent Like a vasectomy, your flow is non-existent! You could be in the mob, and still couldn’t make a “hit” You had to work out, just to be fit enough to quit Shit, you’re on the right train, but on the wrong track I spit words in “mint condition” like a tic tac You couldn’t “beat that” if you were jacking off You rhymes are “cold”, but I don’t hear no hear no cough This ain’t a cook-off, but you rap like you’re “baked” I’m a predator, cuz I “Prey over you” like a body at a wake Like fruit on bushes, the way I’ll leave you “buried” Like a failed conception, you’re verse was “miscarried” You contradict yourself like a “female-sperm-whale” No one could “feel ya words”, if ya lines-were-in-brail!
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