Плут MC - Американ дрим - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I’m pretty much destined to be a bad example to someone.

The rhythm grants me peace—within it, I just zone out.

My hood is my ghetto guide—it’s far from high-class.

The morning after-haze: these battles and the booze.

Give me five—I go hard as hell, moving like a phantom.

My look might be sketchy, sure, but I’m no simple guy myself.

Home, work, dust, work... So how are *you* doing? What’s up? In the eyes of the intro, a mere reflection; in the throes of paranoia—a glitch.

Everything is, of course, a dilemma—though even that isn't canon.

Whoa, come on—you're not alone, you intellectual on the feed of legends.

Where every single fragment, in the end, gets wrapped up in plastic.

I do things unlike the masses—not like the others, nor like *those* guys.

Under the cover of the noise, I'll mess with your head—yours and your homie's, yours and your girl's.

I could keep this up for a long time—and I will. Looks like this ain't exactly a rumba.

But move with style! Attack the dance floor—cubic meter after cubic meter.

While everyone rushes forward, never looking back...

It seems they're just running in circles—right back where they started.

And once again, I drop the heavy load, spitting a freestyle.

Down in the back alleys, the hustle is brewing—I'm still slinging my wares.

And that's not "good" or "bad"—it's just the raw, honest truth being served up.

(True, true, true.)

I make sure it *bangs*—not just for the tea-sippers.

It hooks you, doesn't it? Hooks you just like it used to.

Now everything is even more *fucking fire*—the quality is top-tier, brothers.

The neighborhood kids are blowing up the spot—going off like a lit fuse.

Fresh verses over the beat, pulled straight from my phone notes.

How hard it is to be a god; how simple it is to be a boss.

What breed are you? What class do you belong to?

My kind is, well... dangerous; your kind looks a little worn-out.

I need the hustle; you need full-coverage insurance.

Well, look who's here—surprise! This ain't Compton.

There isn't a single gang here...

But there are still guns, hoes, and drugs—gangsters and Rastas.

Masters of the craft and dancing bodies; rolled-up bills and the cash flow spinning.

Just scraping by—simply trying to find something to eat... anything but plain pasta.

And of course, the vibe is still pumping just like it used to—back when the bridges went up in Saint P.

(Still pumping just like it used to.)

Slowly but surely, I'm losing my fucking mind—it's just the human factor.

Natural selection. The *stash* is in my pocket.

And that shit is the real deal. Doc—before you can even blink—

How can a man become just an entry on a ledger?

And be listed merely as a piece of evidence?

Flood my soul with napalm, with burning zeal;

A flock of tailwinds has caught fire.

I play the fool, I act out the drama—

So here we are... well? Shall we begin?

The flight is proceeding normally—yo, oh-oh!

I rush headlong into a dead end, gasping for breath;

All around me, the noise and clamor swarm—

Everything is going according to plan, exactly as it should.

Except... it’s just not the right fit—take that literally.

Echoes of knowledge, within a horizon of shifting facets;

Feeling it in my gut: to each their own, to each their due.

The only constant remains the snowfall following the leaf-fall—

The Chronicles of a Sociopath.

A Russian soul, the American Dream—

Starting Monday—as always—a brand new life.

A Russian soul, the American Dream—

Starting Monday—as always—a brand new life.

A Russian soul, the American Dream—

Starting Monday—as always—a brand new life.

A Russian soul, the American Dream—

Starting Monday—as always—a brand new life.

A Russian soul, the American Dream—

Starting Monday—as always—a brand new life.