STONAPATHI – Peth (ft. *imaad majeed)

Critical acclaim for Peth (ft. *imaad majeed) by STONAPATHI:

“Next level Sri Lankan sound. Future bass from the bokka. Nicely done! Great track! Those sirens and chaos reminds of Public Enemy/NWA and Bomb Squad productions!” – Asif Ansar, Rude Boy Republic

“Very nice work” – Asvajit

“Too dope” – Himal Kotalawala, Department of SWAG

“Good stuff. Catchy track. Harlem Shake! That’s what [it] reminds me of” – Huzni

“Tradition clashes with modernity. Catchy melody. Love it” – Omee

“Very Diplo” – Randhir, Brown Boogie Nation

“Louco” – Raphael Jucá, Brazil

“Full arthal” – Shamika Makalanda, MakiBrothers

“Wowwwww. Nice music! Good producer” – Za Zo, Brazil

Peththak aragena wattata yanakota, kajjek indagena pethi kanawa. Lansi patau gamata yanna rocket hadanawa. Thaka dun rocket hadanawa.

Pull up at a checkpoint, check the date, it’s been five years since you’ve been a threat, but the pigs don’t mind, you’re still worth a search, a pat down and a suspicious look when your jaws are gnawing, the rattle of your teeth in their ears perks attention, which clubs you been hittin? Tell ’em, it’s alright, sir, I’m only half drunk, you see, just trying to roll these four wheels onto that there concrete, then I’ll step into the club, and drink some more, by the time I step out, I’ll see the light of day, I’ll get my ass home safe, you’re better off letting me go than taking the time and the trouble to put me to books, I’ve got no bribes for crooks, you don’t look straight, matter fact, I can tell, from that pat on my ballsack, you weren’t checking for drugs, you were checking me out, I got friends on the inside that can turn you out, get your ass back in the closet, I’m back in the driver’s seat, pull out and forget where I am as I light the spliff.

Give up the game and appeal for asylum, seeker, all you’ve ever found is a leader, follow up and fact check every last detail down to statistics, picking on nits for grammatic(al) precision, politically correct the victim, tied to a tree by a Mervyn Silva, the story blows up on social media where twittering twats opine on circumstance. But the pigs in the ballroom don’t care for misfortune, paying their weight in gold with taxpayer’s fortunes, leaving scraps on the table for those of us unable to entice the crowd, stir up the melting pot until it boils over, spilling out the sides, burning our fingers, while thinking hats tip to the tic tac toe of a belligerent, insolent, insufferable Chinthanaya, prophetic visions of a misguided utopia, I told you, bruh, but you were busy chewing your gums, brains racked on a dose of euphoria, feeling the world lift its weight off your shoulders, bench press the jury, the judgement is bartered, another free man walks away from his fate, while the poor are left to wage war with your windows, eyes closed to the naked truth, you pay your dues and your conscience clears. 

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