| It's a wind of change, a refreshing breeze
|
| we rise from our knees - the prize sector.
|
| In search of treasure, leaving the labyrinth of everyday life,
|
| but instead of Captain Flint, the arsonist Flint.
|
| And we burn-burn-burn - fire!
|
| I no longer hear your dog barking,
|
| I fly higher, higher, here it is the sun, higher,
|
| and the patient is no longer breathing - I went out ...
|
| I'm bitter, thickened opium on a gypsy's knife,
|
| smear me on cellophane gently with a hundred copies.
|
| I'm a cellophane bag smeared with the Moment,
|
| drooling at me, shket soars over the continent.
|
| They cut me sleepy at a sleeping fighter - I am a knife,
|
| the boy had not yet shaved his mustache, he was thin and thin-skinned.
|
| I'm glue Moment, and I could resurrect a vase for you,
|
| but then the foundation cracked - the country is losing its mind.
|
| I told you something, as if they had given Pentotal,
|
| but this staircase did not lead us to heaven, but to the basement.
|
| Sister call your brother now
|
| what does it mean - received a summons from the military registration and enlistment office?
|
| And how long have I been lying here, like a spoiled vegetable,
|
| and where did your emergency help find me?
|
| Untie, release, where are my clothes?
|
| I so want everyone to be alive, as before ...
|
| This generation of mine is silent in the corners,
|
| My generation dare not sing
|
| My generation feels pain
|
| But again he puts himself under the whip.
|
| My generation is silent in the corners
|
| My generation dare not sing
|
| My generation feels pain
|
| But again he puts himself under the whip.
|
| Fumbling, I did not die between generations like J. Cole,
|
| These years are just moments
|
| Under the baseball cap
|
| Son, what are these pipes
|
| Dancing, Decl, basketball?
|
| What have I done for hip-hop?
|
| Mom needs Validol
|
| My generation, who are you with?
|
| In a sea of schemes and a frantic pace
|
| No need for medals, universities,
|
| Killed my peers
|
| Propaganda, not hero
|
| We are on the air why not?
|
| On the verge of war
|
| That which is taken for granted
|
| Sprouted in these minds
|
| Wanna jump in the Panamera
|
| And sit in the front rows
|
| Here no one knows the measures,
|
| This is a bug for the system.
|
| Combat units
|
| Generations of zero
|
| A pair of sticks in the chariot,
|
| A couple of times for a fuck
|
| Watch the metamorphoses
|
| Everything flows like blank verse
|
| My neighborhood is a Bosch painting
|
| Am I romantic or psycho?
|
| Our songs in schools and kitches
|
| Make your voice louder to sound epic
|
| My people meet with a brave cry
|
| Money over bitches
|
| Puncher, pinscher, young Kinchev
|
| This generation of mine is silent in the corners,
|
| My generation dare not sing
|
| My generation feels pain
|
| But again he puts himself under the whip.
|
| My generation is silent in the corners
|
| My generation dare not sing
|
| My generation feels pain
|
| But again he puts himself under the whip.
|
| Sanya paved the way for everyone in the minstrel
|
| in a muddy foreign car, he spread out in a gunshot
|
| clods on the protectors of clay from the black river
|
| headlights that lick human backs
|
| the investigator washed his mustache in chicory drink
|
| Kolya did not sell anyone despite the torture
|
| "in the cold forest squirm like a sucker
|
| and there look for talking cows"
|
| Igor's work was not vulgar
|
| stand behind the letters on the garage walls
|
| carry a guitar and a wife
|
| and more and more fall in love with silence
|
| Vitya was, according to all signs, a visionary
|
| sorry did not pay attention to the mittens
|
| winter came and he stirred again
|
| went wandering and never came back |