Jack Parow - Byellville Lyrics

Jack Parow back for another fokken piss take
Keep your eyes open of jy mag my fokken mis kyk
Take your baby for a chips en fokken vis date
Blow up the jol like I'm made for bloody buskruit

Almal is like, fokkit Parow is just great
Bitches are so slick you could swear its fokken mince mate
Die fokken woorde van die straathoek renegade so high energy I piss fokken Energade

I'm here to rap, not to make fokkin movies
I'm so next level my fokkin groupies have groupies
So what you gonna do when jou moeder fokkin boat sails
All these rappers hanging on Jack Parow's coat tails

I'm buying energy with my piggy bank cent
I moved back to my mom cos i can't pay my rent
Playing real life risk, conquering country for country one for one untill the next on wants me

Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou bouder skud
Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit
Uh, fokkin holy shit

Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou bouder skud
Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit
Uh, fokkin holy shit

Yo kry you moeder fokker round 2, fight, ek's wound too tight I'm fokken bound to bite
Shit sounds just right spoeg kak kak tight, so luister mooi en fokkin walk towards the white light

Die rapper uit die bosse lanks die N1 highway almal fokkin like my nou dat ek die mic kry
By the way, there's nowhere to hide away
Ek spoeg fokkin yster jou kak klink fokken naai 'kay

Om long vir long en lom dom poms, pom om en om met vok om soms
Fok wies die jong fokkin nuus vol gom, so pop that fokkin CD in jou CDROM uh

(Yo) Ek's fokkin fly like Batman rap so siek moet heeltyd gaan vir 'n CAT scan
Quick, vinnig, hardloop to the Jack Van rap so tight you could swear I was a black man

Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou bouder skud
Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit
Uh, fokkin holy shit

Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou bouder skud
Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit
Uh, fokkin holy shit

Check, I fokkin grew up in 'n kak plek raised on pap en WWF
Called kak kommen en kak zef, kak by jou kak, hos fokkof jy's kak drek
Change in my pocket, head full a jokes
So Sundays took my girl to the Spur vir 'n Coke Float

No money for a car, sy moes op my fiets chill
No money for steak or cheese in our Schnitzels
What's that called, I think cordon bleu we roll corduroy pants en gelled up hair
Stone cold shirts and orange bomber jackets, tape Walkmans en Pick 'n Pay packets

I come from a town where no one's fokkin from a little bit of money and poof then they're gone
But I'm Byelville bru, see why till I die so come down to Byellville en fokkin see why

Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou bouder skud
Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit
Uh, fokkin holy shit

Uh, die fokkin Byellville shit
Uh, laat jou bouder skud
Uh, jy fokkin hou van dit
Uh, fokkin holy shit