The era's abuse saturates, Hip Hop degraded to commercial and cafe background music.
Reviews are only a first impression, a last-minute job before the deadline.
Those who sit comfortably in a V.I.P. room corner, power eating maggots sustaining on journalism.
Sobre Otaku, a garbage heap, hanging about the DJ booth waiting to be recognised.
Have you ever created a single snare beat? Do you understand at least one element?
You have opened Pandora's box, don't sleep, crappy critic, part-time working minnow.
Scrath DJs only scrath, dancers only dance, gather round a suntan salon once a week.
Empty women, after the class, on the floor, made to sleep with the teacher on top of the monthly fee.
THe flattered single pumping artist, that interview was a good,
Ignorant to the fear of dark thoughts, children are always happy.
Next, you bilingual sellouts on FM can no longer boast about Hip Hop.
With your
