[FREE] Japanese Drill Type Beat x UK Drill Type Beat - "Rain"

[FREE] Japanese Drill Type Beat x UK Drill Type Beat - "Rain"
Free Download | Purchase: bsta.rs/IFQZb
Beat store: hawksunwnddygka.beatstars.com/
Contact: [e-mail]
Instagram: / hawksunbeatz
Soundcloud: / hawksun-beatz-176071377
BPM: 144
Key: Dm
This beat is free for non-profit use only.
Must credit: (prod. Hawksun Beatz) in the title/description.
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Tags
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[@Chem_sou_10]

LEGENDARY 🥶

[@AttamanKing]

vibes bro🔥

[@weeno666]

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[@xeastyo_o5682]

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[@Way2noncha13]

Yo I wanna use this shi

[@hawksunbeatz]

Use it whatever you want, bro. It's free for non-profit use. Just credit me (prod. Hawksun Beatz)

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[@ArtemusPariah]

Silicone sirens screech a stale anthem, a plastic princess with Botox scars masking the hustle. Drown your sorrows in cheap champagne, your weave needs a serious intervention, queen. Status, a gilded cage, freedom's the price tag I can't afford. Karma's a boomerang, my choices its twisted trajectory. Claws out, this concrete jungle's my grimy domain. Loyalty's a fading tattoo, your betrayal a fresh, oozing wound. Hype fuels this vapid machine, the radio spews the same recycled garbage. Inner demons brawl in a lyrical cage match, the cost of staying true. Sell my soul? Please, the fire in my gut burns hotter than molten lava. It forges truth into rhymes that'll sting like a wasp. Blue ticks and unread messages, a digital graveyard where hopes go to die. Fresh prince facade crumbles, reality's a harsh kick to the teeth. This symphony of struggle plays on broken bottles and desperation. Open your eyes, the truth's a rotten egg, but it shatters the illusion of easy living. Hunger pangs growl a symphony, designer perfume masks the stench of despair. Gunshots echo, a concrete lullaby for the lost and the hungry. This life's a bloodbath, survival's the only currency, and trust is a bullet best kept hidden. Mic morphs into a rusty shiv, lyrics sharper than broken glass. Spitting venom truths, slicing through these manufactured pop stars. Fake rappers crumble like sandcastles in a storm, their fleeting fame rotting faster than a week-old burrito. This ain't no sugar-coated nursery rhyme, it's a Molotov cocktail of fury, ready to ignite the revolution. No longer whispers in the dark, my voice screams a battle cry, igniting a spark in this concrete wasteland. The city's my canvas, a sprawling monument to the forgotten. I paint with rage, a graffiti masterpiece scrawled across the system's rotting foundation. They crave the spotlight's artificial glow, but I expose the maggots feasting beneath the glitter. This symphony of struggle's a sonic middle finger, a roar of the downtrodden rising from the gutter. Watch the plastic empires crumble, toppled by the stench of our collective truth. Bruised and battered, but my spirit's a rusty nail, impossible to bend. This concrete lullaby whispers tales of a broken system, a mournful dirge of empty promises and forgotten dreams. We, the forgotten, crawl from the shadows, voices amplified and dripping with fury. This ain't a war of bullets, but of words sharper than a rusty hacksaw, truth wielded like a bloody butcher knife. So let the sirens wail, a chaotic symphony of our discontent, a soundtrack to the rebellion brewing in the city's underbelly. We, the rebels with a cause, ignite an inferno in the dead of night. This ain't a fleeting fad, it's a phoenix rising from a dumpster fire, burning brighter with every passing moment. These concrete jungles are our kingdoms, not of steel and glass, but of grit and defiance. We claim them, not with violence, but with the stench of our truth, bathed in the glorious light of a revolution that won't be ignored.