| Poets wanted to be rich hacked an ATM
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| Poets know how a machine gun shoots
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| Poets crawled out from those streets where it is lucky for those who take out
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| Poetsy in the know, except for God, no one will ask us anything
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| You tremble at the word boil you are afraid that you will cool down
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| A couple bullets on the body don't always actually finish
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| We rush in confidently when honor is at stake
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| We make porridge that you can eat
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| Cooks, barefoot children,
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| Dreamed of living beautifully, stopped by the rooms
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| There hotels are not 5 stars, there are bars on the window
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| A couple of partaks on the body a couple of spots of fate
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| Naughty rigmarole, we shine faces on TV
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| Prikol still yesterday in the pockets floated zeros
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| Funny yesterday behind us on the heels
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| The cops rushed, and today they are asking for a photo on Instagram x2
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| In this predatory world, we are too tough for them
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| If I have problems I dial the boys
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| After all, sometimes it’s hotter in the bustle than the hammam
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| Don't play bandit, pos.
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| You are on an economy tariff in life
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| Although you are yelling at everyone for business, tell me what's the catch here
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| We zigzag around the districts and dreamed only about
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| For God to give us the opportunity to put food on the table
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| Where there is fierce arbitrariness, where fate is broken
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| Where garbage does not strive for the fact that pizdobol
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| Where fuck people, we keep people in us
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| And out of a thousand ways, we are harder on that
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| Knocking out the door with my foot, flying on your movement
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| And now you don't talk anymore
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| That we are those second-rate types
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| Who is destined to be born and leave in the arms of poverty
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| Contracts on the table
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| that simple kid from the last desk
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| In which they did not believe, written off,
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| Written off when he wasn't ready. |