| Yekaterinburg, turn on the speakers,
|
| Aka, MadBusta's.
|
| The rappers are all in a panic.
|
| In one clip, from one muzzle,
|
| Feel the power of joint inflation.
|
| Listen here, I'm like Madjic Bullet.
|
| If you drink, then they will always smoke me.
|
| I adore music, Black machine.
|
| Here, keep it for testing.
|
| Aka, MadBusta's.
|
| That's right - Accuracy.
|
| Insolence, ham, aka like that,
|
| One, nine grams, bam
|
| Gram, bam, everything goes und-programs.
|
| Eyes in meat, body in rubbish.
|
| How do you like this arrangement?
|
| Brother, tell me.
|
| Or are you a fan of RnB and marijuana?
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| Aka, nine grams, and nine millimeters.
|
| Now feel: you are hooked specifically.
|
| Up to eighteen is forbidden.
|
| Under the heading of the newspapers - my portrait is spectacular.
|
| Cold ice, elite platoon.
|
| Fucks on the brain in the mode: machine gun.
|
| I am inflation. |
| You, you, you, you are bankrupt.
|
| I am the one who takes, not gives.
|
| There's so much arrogance here
|
| Swing it a little
|
| When you see us, you will feel tired.
|
| What else is left? |
| Pick faster.
|
| Catch nine millimeters and fall asleep.
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| When we roll the stage, the floor is a beat,
|
| And in cola, we are busta's column.
|
| In a striking turnip - we know a lot.
|
| Our rap is nature itself,
|
| Where are you just a wolf. |
| Jerk.
|
| At the stake, brother.
|
| Rhyme blow to the side.
|
| Get burned son
|
| Get a lesson, one, nine grams, bam.
|
| Glock, cold trigger.
|
| My march to the transfer:
|
| Good luck. |
| From this transmission,
|
| Your mother will cry over the coffin.
|
| Chip-chip-pa and you are killed.
|
| Flying out of the muzzle
|
| The bullet shines with a bright flame.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| Aka, we are Busta's, hyphen,
|
| Stopudovy hit.
|
| Nine to the beat, through the cheeks on the teeth
|
| To you. |
| Damn, in debt.
|
| Half per kilogram.
|
| Dividing into pieces, death, flame, smoke.
|
| My blow, at your gate,
|
| Turned out to be a goal.
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing.
|
| Nine grams, and nine millimeters,
|
| Aka - a hundred pounds arsenal.
|
| Half past two, fuck the hip.
|
| Listen when our music is playing. |