Your policy, come on, set it on fire,
|
This summer, I was not going to tick in Bali.
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I'm with the boys to the district, with Bogdan Pashk,
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We shake our heads, we study, we sit like shkons.
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On two joysticks of red eyes, there is plasma and smoke,
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Without blunt holes that will lead to trouble.
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I put layouts for life on even beats,
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Someone is knocking on the mind, “Trip, is that you? |
Well, get in."
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Fuck ** surrendered to me your race, fuck here slaz
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You are all fucked up, then they are unlikely to say “hello” to you here.
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All power is in our power, you see melted plastic here,
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There is a noose on your neck for a long time, you thought it was a tie.
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You heard familiar kicks in your player,
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The sound of the recitative on the bitos is like a brush on canvas.
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Everyone sits here until a chair flares up under them,
|
Then they prove to each other who the half-ace is here.
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Have a pasta, listen to Basta out,
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Get up at 7 am and don't be late for work.
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I am a walker or a runner for public transport
|
You drink boiling water at the sight of an Opel Astra.
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Try to guess what we have in common with threadasts,
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We love Jeanne, we don't call ourselves Rasta.
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Different views, plus different degrees of contrast
|
You are a f*ck if you are unlikely to be told “hello” here.
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Chorus:
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Understand, the whole world is before you,
|
And this is a reason to hang out with the lads again until 7.
|
Perhaps this thought will dawn on you,
|
There is nothing more precious than Mouzon and my family.
|
Understand, the whole world is before you,
|
And this is a reason to hang out with the lads again until 7.
|
Perhaps this thought will dawn on you,
|
There is nothing more precious than Mouzon and my family.
|
Turn the volume up to 100
|
Here is what I wrote on a piece of paper,
|
To give you all the sense
|
And burn delight in your eyes.
|
Turn the volume up to 100
|
Here is what I wrote on a piece of paper,
|
To give you all the sense
|
And burn delight in your eyes. |