Así Mismo

(Yaoh, yaoh) yes mijo
I'm going, he says

Barely with the use of reason on the corners of La Pica
My nice neighborhood where blood splashes
Overwhelmed by problems that mortify adults
Me at eleven years old seeing how dreams get smaller

Immature, I even thought about singing reggaeton
Waiting for the money that was supposed to arrive
With the one I would move, with the one I would help
To the don who on a bicycle selling ice cream kept me

Nowadays they talk bad about me lightly
As if I were interested, as if they knew me
Like they know my real name, not Canserbero
I am not a rapper, but I know how to rhyme and I am sincere

But apparently that doesn't matter these days
In order to be heard on the radio you have to sing with another accent
Or say that you are violent, such as
Those popular rappers who are in prison or dead

Gentlemen, let me tell you that you have been lied to
That what you have heard so far is unsound and meaningless shit
That's why I feel like I've been chosen
To remove the masks of those who make noise instead of music

Because I have learned from failure
I'm not perfect, men, I am what I am, damn it
So that a fake comes to discuss my humility, my sincerity
When my motto is neither less nor more

More than I allege an agreement in which I proposed that
I would create letters to the world based on the little I know
And that's how I discovered that a fist up is better
That a fistful of papers with the face of Simón Bolívar

My fortune is my life and today few doubt what I say
El Indigo, better known as, he kills lies
Wannabes don't understand that we are the prodigies
Between enemies who want to compete, real Hip-Hop it is

Speaking clearly, we are not ordinary
Also dedicated to listeners behind the curtain
That in each song they raise their hand lightly
Maybe that's why Alí Primera didn't make dance music

It makes me angry that they think they are number one
Puppets that don't move the neurons, but they do move the ass
Some of them dub songs on stage
They put on dancers while they tell you that they murder

If you listen to his beats well, they are almost, almost reggaeton
And if you listen to their flows correctly, they are worse than Snoop Dogg or Lil' Jon
Na', come on son, you are disrespectful
To real people and the way of living in the ghetto

In the process they offend those who do get face for this
If you are afraid of the dog, don't see me, leave him still
Jacket, sequins, chains, glasses and rings
Poses on the cover, raised eyebrows, tendril

That shit ain't hip-hop, understand
Once and for all
That there are real people, not all
They are fashion puppets, yaoh

Microphones, fists up
Spray, vinyl, saliva
Drums, boxes, people who motivate you
May you continue fighting this epidemic of lies

I know that many aspire to be able to record with Yandel
I would only accept KRS or Method Man
Or with anyone faithful to their philosophy
And to show that Hip-Hop is not dead yet

I work nine hours a day, only one is for food
In ten minutes, like, fifty to make poetry
At night I read, and I hear habit beats and I read
And on Sunday I'm going up to the roof to record what I believe

I keep giving the middle finger to those who see me badly
Nobody faces that rhyming truth I am an animal
That they can silence me when I am dead and standing buried
But not a thousand songs will distort what I have rhymed
Wo-wo (yaoh)

You guys didn't really want to hear something
This is The Roof, they are
Not that shit out there

Is the real Hip-Hop it is Yeah!
The real Hip-Hop it is (wo-wo-wo-wo-wo)
The real Hip-Hop it is yeah!
The real Hip-Hop it is (yaoh)

You know it's can can, once again with the microphone
Yellow, blue and red, eight stars on my chest I have written
If they curse me it doesn't affect me because I am cursed
By the way, if rap is dead, shut me up or I'll resurrect it

You know it's can can, once again with the microphone
Yellow, blue and red, eight stars on my chest I have written
If they curse me it doesn't affect me because I am cursed
By the way, if rap is dead, shut me up or I'll resurrect it

You, is can can
And GBEC you is can, can
This is El Techo you is can, can
Wo-wo-wo-wo-wo is can, can
Yaoh, yaoh

Yaoh, yaoh, real Hip-Hop Real, conscious
Maracay, Venezuela, exactly GBEC El Techo in the house
So that you crash into the walls (yaoh!)
It's Canserbero, mamagüevo, who you thought he was then
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
The same ones as no less (uoh!)