Проект Увечье - Стрижка - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

But I’m not the type to sweat with my hair, not in a state of rage.

Under 3 millimeters my haircut is my personal patent

Was lost by society, are you turning on the fat grouse?

What, are you screwing people over again by rubbing your palms?

I will and will sing.I'm always racing on the pen

Once I got old, in Novogireevo I was punished for rapping

Brothers, hare among the fashionable ones with bob haircuts

I'm like a vestige of the era of Stalin's concentration camps

Just shaved the cabbage soup, as befits a man

A fashion stylist squeaks to me, saying: we’ve gone a little overboard here

I'll grin, we don't pinch our conscience

Fuck this fancy sushi, I'll eat cabbage soup

Don’t look for poems, I’m not a poet - and we can finally sing,

To release the pain from a soul torn like rags

Here the spear of anguish will pierce the chest and perhaps finish off

Well, I would like to save my life, at least for her

Short haircut.While away the days, but not on the courts

If he was involved in anything, it wasn't drugs

Petting the cat, looking out the window, getting ready for the cold weather

I know, I would hardly be able to select octaves by frets

Yes, I don't need a comb.Yes, I'm not the best example

Yes, it's too late for me to repent.Yes, I'm always on shit

Yes, alas, I did not become an example of refined manners,

But the feeling in me is not sold for a handful of coins

I trimmed my temples.What can I say?Well, the spitting image of Skin!

That's it, don't worry about it, later in the evening there will be more attacks

I'll improve my skill in spitting from the cliff where the river bends

You can’t see the evening, don’t die, even just take it here and disappear

My heart is in pieces and nothing can be put back together, the winter depression came again, sat down, throwing on a pea coat

How to sift out the slag when there seems to be an empty hose inside?

You won’t even turn around - there he comes, just as he was walking.

A scar to the living, guilty of inertia, that they stare askance

No, I don’t know the route - at least there’s a compass on the sleeve of my jacket

The office is not my thing, licking butts in awe of the boss,

I don't believe in network marketing - I believe in space

And hair length is a shitty issue.Of course it's a matter of taste

The point is the bonds that again hang around the neck like a dead weight

I will disappear into the crowd of passers-by, remaining unrecognized

All that will remind me of me is only this music

Short haircut.I whiled away my days, but not on the courts.

If he was involved in anything, it wasn't drugs

Petting the cat, looking out the window, getting ready for the cold weather

I know, I would hardly be able to select octaves by frets

Yes, I don't need a comb.Yes, I'm not the best example

Yes, it’s too late for me to repent.Yes, I'm always on shit

Yes, alas, I did not become an example of refined manners,

But the feeling in me is not sold for a handful of coins

Short haircut.While away the days, but not on the courts

If he was involved in anything, it wasn't drugs

Petting the cat, looking out the window, getting ready for the cold weather

I know, I would hardly be able to select octaves by frets

Yes, I don't need a comb.Yes, I'm not the best example

Yes, it’s too late for me to repent.Yes, I'm always on shit

Yes, alas, I did not become an example of refined manners,

But the feeling in me is not sold for a handful of coins