Shrapnel - Оскал - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Fathers initiate your personal profit

A professional in a line of cynics, but in rap, a redneck

If you were a book, I'd choose you like Gogol

After all, burning short-form reading material for warmth isn't offensive...

Music draws like a magnet

something like libido

Your lyrics are like free verse

My lyrics are made in London, the capital of Great Britain

I'm a meter short of reaching gansta heaven, but

I walk to the beat

You to a broken metronome

Give me a beat, any beat will do, especially this one

the path is there, well-trodden, but the way is unknown

With a verse, with delirium, ready to warm

Rich ghetto

Membrane, magnet, and coils, my DIY cerebro

It's time for dads to put their little ones' hats on,

But Tin foil with holes, spin the bottle won't save you.

Hormones and monotonous nicknames have awakened in rap.

Fans can't wait for new lil mixtapes.

We don't need Johnnyboys.

The country needs metal, I hope this will prove it.

Who MCs scourged and lynched with lyrics?

Trash, writhing in pain.

Now the homeland demands heroes on the battlefield: fire and robbery, my little boat is carried by the surf to this land of women.

Tell me: how much do the clothes you didn't buy cost?

This isn't diss, it's a declaration of bloody, tearful slaughter.

Until I become taller than you, I won't leave you alone.

Under the cloak of light, I will be a nightmare, in the difficult times of night.

And in this battle for the sky, you are Papa John, and I am a rabbit.

You are twins, and I am a Boeing.

You are a samurai. And I'm a ronin

Someone is standing above you, I'm free to do what I want.

I'm a hunchback from Notre Dame, and you're just pathetic.

So far, just passing through,

Hitchhiked here.

To rush like crazy, experience is needed, the lines seem like a rumble?

So write until you puke, until you sweat.

Or wait for them to call back, hanging on the line.

After which, followers will arrange black-and-white send-offs on Instagram.

By the way, I think I'm talking about the cable.

Yes, it's a tedious flow,

And the journey is longer than time,

We carry it on our backs,

And in our hands is a power of attorney,

That even if you're on the subway,

My rays will find you there.

You may not greet us kindly.

But you are not our executioners.

I myself realize that there is room for growth.

Where the path leads, it's difficult, and at its end is water, which itself is black.

Like this genre.

Its essence is simple.

Take untalented passersby.

And give them a chance, celebrate with brotherhood.

Any sighs, rhymes, references, punchlines.

Profit, fans, schemes, that is.

As long as there is incentive and an idea,

there is room to grow:

There will be lines for people on my wavelength and speed.