purple plastic - Шлюхи - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

You thought I’d make room for your heart?

Forgive me—there’s no space left in my soul.

You’d be better off asking the Creator to sever your ties with that scoundrel.

Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t intentional on my part, but you’re getting exactly what you deserve.

You thought I was just some dumbfuck—your little boy, a total loser.

But I am a poet; if you wish to be like me, drink a toast to the repose of the dead.

Tima took his own life back in 2020—did you really think *I* would never perish?

True, I haven't yet been laid to rest in a wooden box.

Don't piss yourself—I certainly didn't flinch when I saw my own body, lifeless and still.

I laugh as I look at the rot inside me—a mere matchstick inside a gray box.

You laugh as you look at my guts; you wanted to lose me so badly—so why aren't you happy now?

I never made it through a single circle of Dante’s Inferno.

I got stuck in Limbo—my apologies.

Just as Forrest Gump ran after Jenny, I run after music.

I never gave up—though God knows I tried; my hands are raised in surrender, yet I let them drop years ago.

How can you believe in me? How can you love me—when I don't love or believe in myself?

I’m no idol, but I *will* change the world—I just don't know how yet, seeing as I haven't even managed to change myself. I cheated on her—betraying love itself—and cast my principles into the fire like some dumb bitch offered up as a sacrifice.

You latched onto me—you sad, stupid girl.

I’m a true-blue rapper—and, admittedly, a total suffocating bore.

I’m like dark chocolate—bitter and intense; I’m a genuine fucking lunatic.

I clawed my way out of the slums—inheriting nothing but a club and a cosmonaut’s helmet. Or perhaps that’s just the backstory I feed to the fans who devour my lyrics—portraying myself as a humanoid lost among the Argonauts, while my ship sinks just like Tima did back on New Year's Eve.

Volodya and I aren't twins—so why did a plane fly right into me, as if I were a skyscraper?

I’m not a misogynist—I’m a *sky*-sogynist.

And while we’re at it, I can't stand feminism either—sorry to say it, but those women are just a bunch of stupid bitches. Whores are better than them.

After all, they have their own minds and don't want to change—right, little sister?

Am I a philanthropist? Or a hip-hop-loving sociophobe? I fear those who carry stethoscopes and kaleidoscopes; yet when I look at myself, I see a giant—for my lenses are made of telescope glass.

So here, for your amusement, is the latest version of my horoscope.

I am Uzbek; my father was a coal miner. But you—you are narrow-minded, just another generic specimen.

Yes, you are a specimen—of the "dumb sex." Bitches are an art form all their own.

"Whores"—it’s a conversation I’d sworn off, yet how tantalizingly it rolls off the tongue.

I’m writing an *Amnesia*—check out my latest work.

The symbol and aesthetic of my entire book—it’s right here.

This is my muse. And incidentally, that muse turned out to be just another face in the herd.

I never wanted to be one of you; I never wanted to be just another human being.

But the humans were right: I’m on the same level as the "dumb right-wingers."

They sold out the truth for the sake of rules—rules that happen to be on their side.

I am no *ronin*; I have no need for a master.

I used to hate the sun for its blinding rays, so I created a little sun of my own—and she became my whole world.

I am no romantic; and just as I never knew how to speak from the heart before, I still haven't learned.

I can speak beautifully only when someone close to me dies—like Yegor or Ira. Or when I’m simply shaking someone’s hand.

But I swear to God—getting up on stage? That’s the easy part.

What scares me is standing there, mic in hand, and saying a few simple words about *my woman*.

I’ve grown accustomed to writing only about those who have already left me.

And you’re right—more than ever before. I’m just a bitter little boy, and I always feel like shit.

So what? Maybe that’s exactly why I’m better than you. I’m crazy—how the hell did I manage not to fall apart? The bitch opened her jaws; the dogs were given the order to attack. She spread her wings wide—and today, that bitch saved herself.

I’m marching toward my goal. My mission is to prove this:

You were wrong—dead wrong—when you started trying to humiliate me.

I asked for your faith, and you answered with insults.

I begged you bitches to shut your mouths—and instead, you started sucking.

We were kissing deep on the mouth—because instead of performing on stage, I went and filed a marriage license.

Now, under the crushing weight of the crowd, I no longer even ask for air to breathe.

You. Can you hear the tremor in my voice?

I’m not cold; I just feel like inflicting pain deep within my core today.

I’ll keep making my music even when I’m finally laid to rest in a coffin.

They haven't even had time to don their work gear, yet I’m already—however hesitantly—giving them a head start.

But I’m nineteen now—enough with the games.

You wanted to see my skills? Then watch my ultimate moves.

Beneath my sorrowful smile—aggressive as a politician—you hear the flow, and this is Purple Plastic.

The "Purple" uniform—tailored specifically for Plastic.

To hell with all the bitches; shut every one of those sluts' mouths.

Thanks to everyone; save everyone; let everyone die—that’s what we figured out beneath the glow of the bright night, under the moonlight. I am Svetlana’s son; I may look "black" with my Uzbek hair, but I am no reject—the time has come to silence your shouting.