Escritos de Un Barrio Triste

On the corner of the bald heads, it always smells weird
Started out of love for the art, never for the cash
No matter how much they searched me, they didn’t find it
They took out the lookout, heard three gunshots

In pieces and the bags, the Z left it there
You can feel the violence in that mint-colored house
Ready to leave, I never empty my bags
If you don’t know the area, better not get involved

At night, mummies come out to steal bikes
Here come the patrols, tie your shoelaces tight
Running from the state cops turned us into athletes
My grandma got mad, I planted weed in her pots

I’m feeling real trippy, watching silhouettes
Here in the underground, we cook without a recipe
Some get home, others sleep on the sidewalk
I’m addicted to pills, they don’t last long for me

This shit doesn’t hit, throw in three ampoules
For being a show-off, the dude ended up on crutches
That I cheated on you? That shit isn’t true
In Zacatecas, there are no softies, just narcos in trucks

The original sin is knocking at the door
It’s the feds looking for the goods
But they fell asleep on Roberto, he jumped the fence

(He jumped the fence, that son of a bitch got away)

That pulque with pills got me feeling wild
All laughs and fun until the glass hooks you
Sometimes for an eighth, other times smoking a blunt
Wearing baggy clothes doesn’t make you more of a rapper

Real tough with his crew, but alone he bows his head
I told him a clean shot, and the fucker pulled an axe
Here in the hood, you gotta dream while awake
A mother crying found her son dead

In a street brawl, the dude got knocked out for being slow
Fifteen-year-old girls inhaling glue
Trying to fix the broken stuff they carry inside
He’s looking real skinny, almost blown away by the wind
A homie fell again, at least he tried.