Do you see the error? |
Write in the comments!
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Chorus:
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Here, here, here everything is about money.
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Lies, fights, wars - over money.
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Propaganda, collusion and TV.
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She will jump into the matte Gelik.
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It's all about money here.
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Close, brother, the exchanger.
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They sweep up the evidence like a broom.
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She is with them, all for the money.
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Yes!
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We are a stupid herd, like a thousand years.
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Everything is in deep hypnosis.
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And there is no joy when for lunch
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We are fed with cheap prose -
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Where is the old grandfather at a wonderful moment,
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He learns the threat from his grandchildren.
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Prepare the document, the apartment is an exchange,
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Grandpa is being taken somewhere.
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Everything, everything, everything for money, everything for money,
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Sell, save, it's all for money.
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Spend, buy, yes, everything for money.
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Plow, die - all for money, man!
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"How many do you need to be happy?" |
—
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He was thinking while wearing a mask, putting the cashier down.
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- On the floor! |
On the floor! |
On the floor!
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And I ask - have mercy on us, the sky.
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Fate is in the hands, legs are cramped from running.
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And I ask, have mercy on us, the sky.
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Fate is in the hands, legs are cramped from running.
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Batiushka is raking in cash in a fierce Benz.
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In the news they feed noodles, eat for health.
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We seem to be not children, but we are still in the arena
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And, alas, you can't cover a bald spot with neighbors' curls.
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Here, everyone is only for himself, because the rules are a stupid struggle.
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Some from hundreds down to zero, some under the mattress a new lyam.
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I didn’t see your ramyz, then whoever was the first took it.
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The current epidemic is fucking cash.
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Chorus:
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Here, here, here everything is about money.
|
Lies, fights, wars - over money.
|
Propaganda, collusion and TV.
|
She will jump into the matte Gelik.
|
It's all about money here.
|
Close, brother, the exchanger.
|
They sweep up the evidence like a broom.
|
She is with them, all for the money.
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Yes!
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And I ask - have mercy on us, the sky.
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Fate is in the hands, legs are cramped from running.
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And I ask, have mercy on us, the sky.
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Fate is in the hands, legs are cramped from running. |