| My songs don't sing f##anas in Gabbana and Louis
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| My songs do not sound at the raves of Gen. |
| prosecutor's office
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| Bastards in hoodies ask for photos in parking lots
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| Pretty women draw lines of texts on their ribs
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| Oh my god, I'm driving in a continuous line, but not that far, yay
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| The whole album is about how not to make friends with the dough
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| Not grown by the city of roads,
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| But met in time with a couple of roads above the table
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| In this city I created an underground club
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| Be on the line to dial and ##beat the game
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| In this city I created an underground club
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| He is with a fumes, a little smoky, smoked and rude
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| In this city I created an underground club
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| Be on the line to dial and ##beat the game
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| In this city I created an underground club
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| He is with a fumes, a little smoky, smoked and rude
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| Someone is building while we fall
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| But we are falling in the direction that seems to be necessary
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| With a stone face, but smeared
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| Evenly along the wall, rummage around?
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| In tiled padiks
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| Drawn balloon, in off-season pedals
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| I touched the history of hop
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| Dreaming of touching your story in the ass
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| I'm a negative moron, no money, success
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| Normal brains and figures,
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| But everything I do is just like music
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| For days I ##fuck with bitches
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| Often our behavior leads to separation
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| Offended and at the end of swearing
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| To the boys from the street along ##
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| How much does my performance bring in rubles
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| (We really care about pi##s, that's all)
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| In this city I created an underground club
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| Be on the line to dial and ##beat the game
|
| In this city I created an underground club
|
| He is with a fumes, a little smoky, smoked and rude
|
| In this city I created an underground club
|
| Be on the line to dial and ##beat the game
|
| In this city I created an underground club
|
| He is with a fumes, a little smoky, smoked and rude
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| Did you like the lyrics?
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| Write in the comments!
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| New songs and their lyrics: |