Loc-Dog - Тополя - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

The same view from the high-rise windows, I'm on the 11th floor, come if you want, but I'll see you.

This way or that, not the ones you introduced yourself to, it's like always after a meeting there's a hole between us.

Or maybe it's me, cleaned up and given everything, who hid my conscience here behind dirty texts.

Like a head in the sand, like naked people in the bushes, I go on the attack, so that I don't have to defend myself from them later.

We've become millions of times bigger than we were at the start, it's so strange that fewer and fewer people want to communicate with us.

There's no happiness from the heads, ask the gunpowder ones: "Is anyone alive here?"

Hide your wounded soul from the rich, fuck those who say that intelligence is a matter of acquisition.

Revenge is the work of the young, who have lost everything native and we are of different cuts, accelerated with you.

Leave the building where God is a word for hooliganism, and tuned bitches are like a sham.

Euphoria rules me, and you are ruled by a ruler, we just hang on this thin thread in different ways.

There are so many different additional options here, even from childhood parents are asked: "Don't go too far."

And we look respectfully into the air and continue the story, until all this is tiring.

How delightful are the evenings in Russia, how f**king amazing that I came from Ra, as if it were yesterday.

As if I erased all memory, again ready to strike at the troops of those who cook up a profit with poetry.

And my army dies down, but if so, it means they will simply grow up, and I will always be there among the high-rise buildings.

Where there is cough, ganja, katazh. Do you remember?

Let's sit on the windowsill, hang our legs down there and smoke poplars.

Watch out you don't fall, because you know there was one here, yes, and, in general, lives started flying by here like bullets.

All the little ones, insignificant, fell from here, faces are not visible, who thinks about it, can't burn.

And f**k them, I remember how I run barefoot on the asphalt, the smallest son in the family.

The most honest, not yet knowing pleasure, passion, not yet knowing how everything will be drawn up.

Poplars drop fluff, I will burn it, and not nostrils, not the nerves of relatives that endure.

And they cover the crowns, and not a tire, and everything is smooth for me anyway, I don't need too much.

And in this park for me the planet is the whole earth, the poplars were big...