| Am I dead
|
| Before reaching twenty-five
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| Money is everything
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| Anything that makes me hungry
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| Everything on what I get up
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| Everything that I then bequeath to the children
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| Only money is alive
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| Everything else is shit and synthetic
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| Not enough, the drug that took me by the throat
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| If I need to say something, money will definitely notice it.
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| If I stumble, money will catch me
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| On this beautiful note, I
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| Am I dead
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| Not even noticing the bullets in yourself
|
| You can only hear how some whores are tap dancing into the lid of the coffin,
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| But I know that it's all a conspiracy
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| To grab a meatier ham
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| At eighteen I was annoyed
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| At twenty-two I was laughing and twitching on the floor
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| Now I'm sick
|
| In the best traditions of the genre
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| I wanted to be a serf, to have a feminine charm,
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| But I'm dead and I'm working calmly
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| The light of odion suffocates me
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| News feed VK
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| Mom, dad, how are you?
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| Didn't notice the moment
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| When I started to wean from you,
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| But I'm not afraid anymore
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| Where are all those promises to yourself
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| Don't sit while mom gets old
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| My conscience touches me with tired fingers,
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| And I did not know that growing up means selling out
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| Live to work, work to live
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| Getting used to the regime once decided to become big
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| Tired of myself next door
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| But what is more empty my wallet or my heart
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| Am I dead
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| Clamped not by walls, but by a new bill
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| And a piggy bank heart
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| I won't sell my soul
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| buy my talent
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| let me get better
|
| let me get better |