Карандаш - Ком блином - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

We'll do without the chorus, I need a beat, a sample...

My hands smell of clit, the alcohol is coursing through my blood, the whole world is before me, and I'm typing away on Twitter.

My head is blank again, my fingers miss the buttons, the lump comes out like a pancake.

My Russian is bad, my Japanese is full of gas, my rap is for rap's sake, my life is for my son's sake,

My microphone with a pocket, to convey something to you, because there are things far more important than sold records.

When they were handing out talents, I got this one, with an expired date.

So I play the best I can, no pretensions, brother, I'm the Arshavin of rap, I don't care.

Money is cowardly, it runs away in a hurry, hey, hey, hey! There's never enough of it.

And even if hundreds of songs have been sung about it, I don't care, everyone before us has already sucked everything out of their pockets. And it seems he was average, let's continue, I wear a plastic G-Shock, I don't value gold,

I'm not a gypsy or a khachik, I don't look like a bomber, and I'm as cool to anything red as Sub-Zero.

You say you have no money and I'll piss in your shoe, I don't give a shit who you are or who your dad is,

I don't give a shit that you want to show off your status, I don't give a shit about your pocket gangsters.

Gold is a flashy thing for those who are constrained by boundaries.

It's not taste, it's some kind of nightmare, my gold is my native Shupashkar.

Better than any shiny things, yachts, and half-naked sluts, although let's face it, I wouldn't refuse.

No label, consider me homeless, no head, no place to put a crown.

And if you dig deeper, there are already two wagons of others who are more popular than me without an album. Why do I keep talking about albums and albums? Do you want to sound smart?

Spout complete nonsense with the right intonation, and then a crowd of people like you will worship you.

But apparently my balls are stopping me from bowing down. I'm not a wise old man, I don't know how to live.

I know these balls don't bother me, but what bothers me are the ones who are too perfect, in the details.

They don't swear, they don't drink, but deep down they're bastards, but without flaws, you know, the embodiment of...

The living Spanish national football team, anti-football within the framework of society and reality.

Mr. Perfect, sterile, without genitals, yeah, whatever, I'm obsessed with the drums.

I'm flawed myself, making up excuses. Someone grew up listening to my songs, maybe they'll become like that too. So don't listen to the guy—the guy's freestyling, Rock the microphone, but don't cut the verse.

Dropped my iPhone, so to speak, showing off, the whole world is ahead, and I'm writing you a new tweet.

Until the oxygen has cleared the ethyl alcohol from my blood, I'll be stupid and cracking jokes to the beat.

Rappers have become sweeter than R'n'B, Nike has replaced Crocs—it's not even shameful.

I wouldn't be surprised if one of them soon officially declares himself the Russian Frank Ocean.

A black SUV, low-slung cars aren't my style, I let my friend drive, my carcass is in the car.

We talk and curse, discuss women, because the only thing better than girls is a PlayStation.

Each one waits, like a horse and a prince, naturally, forgetting that for a prince, you have to be a princess. I can't think of a single line anymore. The cook's drunk today, and the pancakes are coming out like a lump.

Good morning, whitefish.