| The air smells of damp November wove all day,
|
| I'm missing again, but how to behave.
|
| How can I bear this, alas, my style,
|
| Sit where you are, thrush, you just don't fuck.
|
| Sound in full then flow in micro cheap,
|
| But if you didn't understand, alas, you listened to f * sing.
|
| I took two words from different lines and mended them.
|
| And you hide the windows behind the curtain so that no one enters.
|
| Through the sieve I pass all the remnants of the brain,
|
| The remains remain inside a white stripe.
|
| Everything is too simple, alas, your mind is too flat.
|
| To understand what I'm talking about, drop in for a visit.
|
| I throw handfuls of sadness, maybe it will let me,
|
| Somewhere along that steppe they will understand me in Russian.
|
| Keep your course on music
|
| The outskirts of Moscow sends greetings to all courtyards, alas.
|
| The air smells of grayness like the end of everything
|
| We live by songs even when we go to the bottom.
|
| Alas, but you do not work, alas, but you are not cool.
|
| Rolling a cigarette in a circle, but your rhymes don't work.
|
| Who is here, here is Slemo, and wherever I am.
|
| This is my rapper and along the way he is with me forever.
|
| Oblique treated, plus oblique for the evening.
|
| With slurred speech with the guys along the river.
|
| The air smells of dullness, like in the USSR,
|
| In the city, the wind is in November, the windows are to the north.
|
| I paint the last reserves for my neighbors by crouching.
|
| Having unfolded a newspaper, an intercom, a two-cassette recorder.
|
| Plays the beat that keeps you nailed to the floor.
|
| Zagi Bok is that guy in the yellow polo
|
| That won't put its teeth on the shelf.
|
| So far, there are so many stupid fagots in rap.
|
| And a mess, like on the fences of quarters,
|
| Where my guys smoke from their mouths and steam comes from their mouths,
|
| And when I meet them, it’s not for nothing that I throw a nickel to them,
|
| But alas, and oh, to you, as far as China *pts. |