Going down a hard road, down the hard road, Going down a hard road, down the hard road, Paint stained hands and fame like Manson, Is the city buried in schemes? But that’s what happens when you do something different, Let’s get introductions aside, Bet on it, you’re never better, I tell them again, I’m trying to do for rhyme what digital cameras did for porn, My loud mouths my downfall it’s doubtful,

One chance, so I live for the moment, You slept at the fact that we crept back to, While media’s feeding you evening shows, Though life’s road was hard I was never so lost, I own this mic like my name was Shure it’s, Verse 2: Pressure. You sound like a bitch man, It’s your round if you’re hanging at the back of the bar, (see all) / Written and performed by K. AMARFIO, D. Smith, J. Christie and M. Lambert. We have a whole lot of superstars on this stage here tonight, Then it’s all over, go home, go sleep, Watching whole cars as they went flying past, Fuck a metro in a pink shirt cos we’re kicking the set. One lyric with gimmick for every with purpose that, And half these cats aint half of what they think they are, So don’t feed the animals, or act a fool, Written and performed by D. Smith. When the sun of the morning hits it’s so painful, (M. Lambert/D. She tries to help him, she doesn’t choose to flee the car, Known as the city of churches home of the serial killer,

One of the sickest MCs on the map for bringing that back.

You see mate? And it’s all love, and it’s alright, The smell of victory is what makes me keep trying, Pressure MC, born with a mechanical mind, He said if I filled my lifetime with sin, Scratches by DJ Debris. This music put your life together when it’s falling apart. It’s that though we learn from our mistakes we’re condemned, Like I had three cigarettes and one match it’s, Let down you hair, lean back in your seat if you’re able, Crews love it when we do something visionary, That’s Charles not Marilyn, a city held to ransom, The fans of the samplers, my godson in pampers,

And that’s as deep as it gets son, I swept floors, packed orders, when poor racked from Porters, Used courtesy of Virgin Monk Muzic (BMI) and Valley Entertainment Incorporated. Every politicians like a gun for hire. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions. Like they try to diss Fats, till they see a picture of him, It’s when you place,
We don’t belong together like Rove and showbiz. Lambert/D. We’re like some hooded up bombers out storming the yard, Francis/K. To ease your muscle pain, do the hustle, That Obese ain’t actors, we produce,

Insightful on the real deal when I write a song, That I hate John Howard like I hate Tony Blair, You can’t serve me like Serena and Venus, Your choice, I won’t judge you tonight, We leave them all for dead, From rips, move like Schapelle on a drug run, So check this, Hilltop locks jaws like tetanus, Treating every breath as my first and day as my last. Then it’s all over, go home, go sleep, And try, fighting for fame on these slept on streets,

Obese, enormous, flawless on the cordless, Rivals will claim over head strong beef, I’m a wreck this, the freshest, Experimental cuts, with the Brando Flux and Mys Diggy, Boys at his back, sleazy, hardened and far,

Well throw your hymens in the sky if you feel the vibe. He smiles, she’s reminds him of his wife that passed away,

But she can’t pay for her son living on the dole, So you get back what you put in no regrets, My love is deeper, my brothers keeper,
Never seeing daylight, getting paid like a slave might, And half the time half my crew could drink the bar, I’m an angry drunk when I’m grabbing a rum, Through the eight million stories that you can’t write down,

I was granted an audience in the devils maze, Lately I’ve been hearing nothing but hype, Concerned about the loss of life he’d never went this far,

Waiting for the kids of this city to take their walls back. Through life’s—Fucking zoo, Some things are better left unsaid like anything that I have to mention, A mans success aint measured by the depths of his pocket, It’s like OJ, little glove, big hand, (D. Smith/B. One chance, so I live for the moment, We’re here to overtake, setting the standard,

And skull shots till we fall from grace like Eric Clapton’s son, We live in the flesh like my raps sewn in your chest, And if I aint getting paid then I’m leaving in the promoters car,