It's hard-o-o-r! |
It's hardcore that can't be cured
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Bracho, let's do it humanly
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This is hardcore turn up the volume
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Walking along the edge do not fall into the abyss
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This song won't break
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Then turn up your speakers
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Now green tea, before green tea
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Now Ritter Sport, before only Alyonka
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Now Alpen Gold, earlier Alyonka
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Cork, bottle, red film on the eyes
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Palyonka vodka, sweet soda
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Overdose is not visible behind the tint (finally)
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It's a very long walk to the next house (fucked up)
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I scored for the gym, for sports for training (fuck everything)
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Understandable to many, the message is deep (deep)
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Poured opium regimen was strict (strict)
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Broke bones in a concrete block (violent)
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Hail thrown into sweat, tired legs
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Forgot the origins, looking for instincts
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You didn't fall, did you? |
Don't you fuck
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Rubbed for life in the psychiatric ward
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I read their thoughts, there are parasitic words in their heads
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I know, man, hip-hop can't be cured
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Lives in the underground, not commercial
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When firing, the recoil is like that of the "Stechkin"
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And there is no recognition except sincere
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I know, man, hip-hop can't be cured
|
Lives in the underground, not commercial
|
When firing, the recoil is like that of the "Stechkin"
|
And there is no recognition except sincere
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Around as if a fool, brother, but we will not be tied sleeves
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Planned escape. |
Well, you don't know Russian?
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I am my boy and I will cook something delicious for you
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Unless, of course, Buzova howls in headphones
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Already the old men, but let's let the young shit
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Rookies will get lost like turtles in their shells
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In the presence of danger, if we fermented
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Kentish will help with bass and beat, our dirty style
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Millions of roads and paths of the unfaithful were trampled
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For a fool barefoot now with dead sneakers
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What is hardcore, I will tell the boys easily
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Salam, Rostov. |
We piss on cop dogs
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Wunch-punch gram 100, locomotive, pair of oars
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Tusa-dzhusa will rush. |
Hey beauties, don't be afraid of us
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We have a conscience and this is not the whole feature
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And you are chasing fashion, don't fucking disgrace yourself
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You know who I am and what my name is, nigga
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Do you love vibe mate or do you smoke white widow
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Our songs chill like Sub-Zero
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Bass beats so that your sub moved from its place
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Street veterans are Morphine, Brasi, Duby
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Us sound, as always, the most unfashionable will be taken
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We read not for glory, the sound is killed for fun
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I came up with my own style, your credit in the mortgage
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Didn't pay a dime, they gave us a beat like that
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Morphine with Doobie M.O.P., well Brazy Big Pun
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I throw grams in split, but not smoke, but meaning
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Smoked for 16 years, there is no point in smoking already
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Many boys have a sour head from smoking
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And how many boys are sitting from Tula to Noginsk
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There are no lavashek at Winston, only Dubao and Milano
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And how many rappers were naming my dick with their lips, listen
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I know, man, hip-hop can't be cured
|
Lives in the underground, not commercial
|
When firing, the recoil is like that of the "Stechkin"
|
And there is no recognition except sincere
|
I know, man, hip-hop can't be cured
|
Lives in the underground, not commercial
|
When firing, the recoil is like that of the "Stechkin"
|
And there is no recognition except sincere |