Luyện nghe bài hát Hey That's Me

It's off the home slice, like a lucky fish.
All I wish is you taste this like a Swedish dish.
It's the L-A-R-S, H-O I-S...
and I represent CV, and yes I confess:
I'm back 2003 and the drum pumps.
Back up, Kris Kross, it's my to jump.
See I'm a and I'm balanced,
rocking it like Valens,
and I'm up to this session,
yes I'm up to fresh challenge.
And I'm thinking, and I'm writing,
and I'm rapping, and fighting
all the layers of apathy
up the zone.
Because I'll your world,
I'll your head.
I'll your paradigm with this microphone.
I was in my '88 south on 101,
with the woofer in the back bumping P.E. one.
Free-styling in a genre I create,
props to Melle Mel, D, and all eight
hundred thousand MC's on whose I stand.
I'm just a white kid a plastic jammie in his hand!
See MC here spends his life feeling fine,
but often get off in a straight line.
Fine, will tell where he's headed.
It's up to chance, Gretel's path is breaded.
Your criticism? I'm above it! Your BS? rubber glove it!
Take your heroin and shove it... life got to love it.
So get this, steal this, deal this, peel away,
I made this song out of my brain and clay.
It helped my brain for a week and a day,
one day it stopped working like the city of Pompeii.
But it's okay, hey, I roll it home.
Knick knack paddy whack, my range his grown.
Profound Antoine De Saint Exuperey,
when I rock the chorus of this I say...

"Lars Horris," hey me!
Part Swedish, part Australian, fun boy G.
"Lars Horris," hey me!
I 1430 on my SAT's.
"Lars Horris," hey me!
I'll rock the like 1-2-3.
"Lars Horris," hey me!
I English and math and biology.

I piss Catholics off with my comic in the Daily. "Why's it called '27th Street'?" Man, front me.
Cham might do "PhD," but can he ever try to rock the mike like me?
And I'm weird like Al, attend Cal, D.J.'s my buddy. Who's Mike?
plays bass and I take wedding vows,
to my hip-hop rhymes I'm busting now.
And I satisfy women GER's,
I advocate the of SUV cars.
I think and Palestine should get along.
I sampled Nine Inch for this song.
And I'm so post-modern, I don't exist.
Did you hear P. Diddy?
You got dissed!
the twenty-first century, MC's please,
you're killing hip-hop when you the Bee Gees!
MC's today rap about five things:
narcotics, cars, girls, clothes, and the bling.
Delusions of grandeur in swing,
fascist self and diamond rings.
But if Martin King were alive today,
how would he the decay displayed?
Homogenized identities, betrayed,
more to rap than just getting paid.
And more to life than MTV and Reeses Pieces,
and I sit in silence, my love for life increases.
It feels to pull the plug on the family TV,
and make my own in society.
And while I this beat, you're doing spoken word,
trying to get your naked heard.
If I know ProTools, I'd be like you
and I could just do word if I wanted to.

"Lars Horris," hey me!
You might see me on the bumping Run-DMC.
"Lars Horris," hey me!
After my BA get my PhD.
"Lars Horris," hey me!
Metaphysically fly John Donne's "The Flea."
"Lars Horris," hey me!
Bronte like Wide Sargasso Sea.