My radio, it doesn't work It's been shot up The wires are burned Someone yanked it just a little too hard My radio, it doesn't work It's been shot up
Übersetzung: Pflaster. Mein Radio.
the hours gone can one trick nights feed 40 days? in my bed at the break of dawn she shivered like a vein slashed bright and new she's got the radio
dead I smell the pavement At the end there's a light And so pretty women Though I couldn't see I'm not blind and inside my mind Fright night on the radio
banging all around. Momma's in the kitchen, she got the radio on all the time. My little sister's screaming, and stamping on the ground. And the radio
the sick shit You about to see dead people without the "Sixth Sense" And yeah, takin food off my mother's table'll get you killed regardless, like my brother's label My
one step ahead But the jiggy was always there Upon the project pavement There was death, enslavement of the mind Single mothers are filled with stress As I lay there with my
my sunshine, I want my sunlight Same old story, over and over Somebody tryin to take knowledge over So I fight back with a native dance Sing my song
the radio, after a play now I jump on the aeroplane, pass though the A since my album came out been starving the game hustle on video, hard shxt again my
shine designed by Christ You about to see dead people without the "Sixth Sense" And yeah, takin food off my mother's table'll get you killed regardless, like my brother's label My
gimmicks of emblem Assemble my ensemble Caught upon the problem Hunger still fierce stomach still grumbles Still pounding the pavement watch concrete
a slave to the rhythm, victims I'm like alien About to put that shit up in 'em I can't live without my radio A 100 miles and runnin' T2 Judgment comin
hop, and rocks for hip-hop Not R&B because to me that's not my style and The R-double-O-quotes ain't for radio, but major soul The ones that's hip won
Well my ladies and gentlemen This is a rapsession and my name is "KRS-One!" And when I talk about "Hip-Hop Music!", I know [Kris
futuristic balastic brain gumma hella contagious you been fair warned I got a gang a radio stations makin me airborne no allemia lukemia nor sickle-cell anemia my
Flower girls play lover Grave games in the courtyard I heard her Screaming like a radio Mary Lou left marks on you She just screams at the walls The kite
getting dressed She nearly looked away. And the big round sun was falling down It grazed the pavement, touched upon her gray This is what I saw {chorus} Sipping beer on aging porches Crooked walls, built before my
